Forge of Darkness (37 page)

They mounted up and resumed the journey. The landscape around them was level, dotted here and there by thorny brush, the soil cracked and shrivelled by drought – as it had been since Faror had first joined the Wardens. She sometimes wondered if Glimmer Fate was feeding on the lands surrounding it, drawing away its sustenance as would a river-leech snuggling warm flesh; and indeed, might not this sea of black grasses mark the shallows of the Vitr itself, evidence of the poison seeping out?

Faror Hend’s gaze fell upon her companion, who still rode ahead, the beast beneath T’riss creaking and still leaking dust, dirt and insects.
Is she the truth of the Vitr? Is this the message we are meant to take from her? Ignorant of us and indifferent to our destruction? Is she to be the voice of nature: that speaks without meaning; that acts without reason?

But then, if this were true, why the need for a messenger at all? The Sea of Vitr delivered its truth well enough, day after day, year upon year. What had changed? Faror’s eyes narrowed on T’riss.
Only her. Up from the depths, cast upon this shore. Newborn and yet not. Alone, but Finarra spoke of others – demons
.

The hills drew nearer as the afternoon waned. They met no other riders; saw no signs of life beyond the stunted shrubs and the aimless pursuits of winged insects. The sky was cloudless, the heat oppressive.

The rough ground ahead slowly resolved itself in deepening shadows, the clawed tracks of desiccated, sundered hillsides, the gullies where
runoff
had once thundered down but now only dust sifted, stirred by dry winds.

Faror’s eyes felt raw with lack of sleep. The mystery posed by T’riss had folded up her mind like a tattered sheet of vellum. Hidden now, all the forbidden words of desire; and even her concern for the fate of the captain – as well as that of Spinnock Durav – was creased and obscured, tucked away and left in darkness.

Closer now, she made out a trail cutting into the ridgeline. It was clear that T’riss had seen it as well, for she guided her mount towards it.

‘Be wary now,’ Faror Hend said.

The woman glanced back. ‘Shall I raise us an army?’

‘What?’

T’riss gestured. ‘Clay and rock, the dead roots beneath. Armed with slivers of stone. Below the deep clays there are bones, as well, and the husks of enormous insects all wonderfully hued.’

‘Can you make anything from the land surrounding you?’

‘If it had occurred to me,’ she replied, reining in, ‘I could have made guardians from the grasses, but in shape only that which I have seen. A horse, or one such as you and me.’

‘Yet you fashioned a sword with which to defend yourself, before we met.’

‘This is true. I cannot explain that, unless I have perhaps seen such a weapon before, only to have since forgotten. It seems my memory is flawed, is it not?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘If we are many, the outlaws will avoid us. So you said.’

‘I did.’ Faror hesitated, and then said, ‘What power do you draw upon, T’riss, in the fashioning of such creatures? Does it come from the Vitr?’

‘No. The Vitr does not create, it destroys.’

‘Yet you came from it.’

‘I was not welcome there.’

This was new. ‘Are you certain of that?’

T’riss was still for a moment, and then she nodded. ‘It assailed me. Age upon age, I fought. There was no thought but the struggle itself, and this struggle, I think, consumed all that I once was.’

‘Yet something returns to you.’

‘The questions you would not ask have given me much to think about – no, I do not read your mind. I can only guess them, Faror Hend, but I see well the battles they wage upon your countenance. Even exhaustion cannot dull your unease. I remember the pain of the Vitr: it remains, like a ghost that would swallow me whole.’

‘Whence comes your power, then?’

‘I do not know, but it delivers pain upon this world. I dislike this, but if necessity demands, I will use it.’

‘Then I would rather you did not, T’riss. The world knows enough pain as it is.’

To that T’riss nodded.

‘I suspect now,’ Faror resumed, ‘that you are Azathanai. That you sought to war against the Vitr, or, perhaps, that you set out seeking its source, its purpose. In the battle you waged, much of yourself was lost.’

‘If this is true, Faror Hend, then my only purpose is my own – none other seeks to guide me, or indeed use me. Are you relieved? I am. Do you think that I will return to myself?’

‘I don’t know. It is a worthy hope.’

T’riss turned back and nudged her mount forward.

Faror Hend followed.

The trail was well used, and not long ago a score of shod horses had travelled it, coming round from the west along the range’s edge, the most recent hoofprints heading in the same direction as the two riders.

‘I think we shall find company at the spring,’ said Faror Hend, moving up alongside T’riss. ‘But not outlaws.’

‘Friends?’

Faror’s nod was cautious. ‘A troop, I think. Perhaps a militia, out from Neret Sorr, or Yan Shake to the south.’

‘Let us see.’

They rode on.

The path twisted between crags, climbing steeply in places before levelling out across the spine of the first line of hills. Ahead, a short distance away, the ruins of a gate marked the pass. Off to one side was a lone blockhouse collapsed on two sides, revealing a gut crowded with broken masonry, tiles and withered timbers from the roof. The scatter of shattered tiles crunched under the hoofs of Faror’s plodding horse as they rode past. She saw her mount’s nostrils flare, followed by a pricking of its ears. ‘Not far now,’ she said quietly.

Beyond the gate, they traversed the remnants of a cobbled road, the surface buckled in places; in others the cobbles buried under white dirt made silver in the dying light. Shortly later, they came within sight of the spring, a green-fringed pond half encircled by pale-trunked trees. Figures moved about and horses could be seen, tethered to a long rope strung between two ironwood boles.

T’riss reined in. ‘I smell blood.’

The words chilled Faror. The men she could see were all dressed in light grey robes, hitched up round their legs to reveal supple sheaths of leather armour cladding their thighs, knees and shins. The bulk of their upper bodies hinted at more of the same beneath the thin wool.
Single-bladed
axes hung from rope belts at their hips. The men were bareheaded, their hair shaggy, wild.

A dozen or so were busy digging graves, while others slowly converged upon that impromptu burial ground, dragging corpses splashed in blood.

T’riss pointed at one of the dead bodies. ‘Outlaws?’

Faror Hend nodded. Two robed figures were approaching. The larger of the two by far was thick-limbed, the muscles of his shoulders slung down as if by their own weight. His nose, twisted and flattened, dominated his weathered face, but the blue eyes were bright as they fixed on T’riss’s mount. Lying across this man’s broad back was a two-handed axe, single-bladed and spiked, over which he rested his hands.

His companion was almost effete in comparison, his skin pale and his features watery in the manner of the oft-ill. The short axe tucked behind his belt bore a shattered haft, and the man’s forearms were almost black with blood up to the elbows.

‘Death rides their breath,’ T’riss said in a cool voice. ‘Are these your kin?’

‘Monks of the Yannis Monastery,’ Faror replied. ‘We are within the demesne of Mother Dark. This is Kurald Galain.’

‘They took no prisoners.’

Close to thirty slain outlaws – men, women and children – now lay beside the gravediggers. Off to one side of the pond, a makeshift village pushed through the trees, shacks like open sores, doorways gaping, possessions abandoned. Woodsmoke drifted.

The smaller of the two monks spoke to Faror, ‘Warden, your arrival is well timed. Had you come here yesterday, you’d be the sport of little boys by now. I am Lieutenant Caplo Dreem, commanding this troop of Yan Shake. And this drooling fool at my side is Warlock Resh.’

Resh addressed T’riss, his voice melodious, like water on stone. ‘Welcome, Azathanai. That is a fine horse you’ve made, but I wonder, can you hear its screams?’

T’riss turned to Faror Hend and her expression was grave. ‘It seems that I shall be delayed somewhat in my journey to Kharkanas.’

‘Not too long I should imagine,’ the warlock said. ‘Yan Shake is on the way to the Wise City, after all.’

Faror Hend straightened. ‘Excuse me, but this woman is in my charge. I will deliver her to Kharkanas, and without delay.’

Caplo cleared his throat, as if embarrassed. ‘Your pardon, but you must be Faror Hend. Calat has fifty Wardens out looking for you, not to mention Kagamandra Tulas, who happened to be visiting your commander’s camp. Your presence is required by your commander, at once. To any who might come upon you, such was the message you were to receive.’

‘This guest,’ said Resh, with little in the way of welcome in his eyes as they held unwavering upon T’riss, ‘is now under the protection of the Yan Shake.’

‘I will convey my protest to Calat Hustain,’ said Faror Hend, furious – but it was the best she could manage, so confounded were her thoughts.
Kagamandra Tulas? Has he come for me? How dare he! I am a Warden of the Outer Reaches, not some wayward child!

T’riss spoke to her. ‘My friend, it seems that we must part. For your company, I thank you.’

‘This sits well with you?’ Faror asked her, hands tight on the saddle horn to still their tremble.

‘If I tire of their company, I will continue on to Kharkanas, to meet Mother Dark. With respect to my person, I am safe enough. This warlock thinks much of himself, but he poses no threat to me.’

Caplo coughed. ‘Excuse me, but please, there is no threat in any of this. We are returning south, and without question Mother Sheccanto Derran will wish to meet this Azathanai, thus requiring a brief stay in Yan Shake. It is but a courtesy, I assure you.’

‘You’d best keep it so,’ Faror snapped.

T’riss was now studying the lieutenant. ‘I see you are well acquainted with blood, sir.’

‘I am, Azathanai. This band of cut-throats have well earned their fate, I assure you. Unpleasant tasks—’

‘And the children?’ T’riss asked. ‘Were they too cut-throats?’

‘Clay in twisted hands,’ Caplo replied. ‘They fought alongside their kin. The newborn were slain by their own, when we would have welcomed such waifs into our monastery.’

‘Despair raises high walls,’ Resh said, shrugging. ‘Lieutenant, the Azathanai spoke in truth. She has immense sorcery within her, like a child waiting to be born. Best not twist her hands.’

‘We shall display the utmost courtesy.’

‘Then I shall ask of you a favour,’ T’riss said to Caplo. ‘Provide Faror Hend with an escort, and perhaps a fresher horse. I would no harm come to her now that she must return to her camp.’

‘Unnecessary,’ Faror said. ‘But thank you, T’riss—’

‘T’riss!’ grunted the warlock, eyes widening. ‘No gift from the Vitr, this woman!’

Faror Hend sighed, ‘And in your denial you reveal what?’ She faced Caplo again. ‘Lieutenant, in the message you received from the Wardens, was there word of Captain Finarra Stone?’

‘Yes. She will recover. But if there is cause for concern now, it must be for your betrothed, who rides with haste to the very shore of the Vitr itself.’

‘That is his decision.’ Even as she said it, she saw Caplo’s brows lift.

‘Be assured that he does not do so alone,’ the lieutenant continued, once again looking embarrassed. ‘A troop of Wardens accompany him, as does Sharenas Ankhadu.’

‘Sharenas Ankhadu?’

‘Your commander entertained guests – I am sure I mentioned that, did I not? No matter. We met Captain Hunn Raal upon the road, as he rode with three spare mounts for Kharkanas. Of his mission, alas, we know nothing.’ But now his innocent gaze settled upon T’riss, and then he smiled.

Abyss take all these games!
‘Was there word of Captain Finarra Stone’s companion?’

‘Safe and sound, I understand, though physically restrained from riding out in search of you.’

She thought she hid well her reaction to that, but then Resh said, ‘A cousin, yes? This thickness of blood so inspires.’ In his tone there was both amusement and faint derision.

Caplo cleared his throat. ‘In any case, do rest with us this night, Warden. I see you are near to collapse—’

‘I am well enough.’

‘Spare pity for your horse, then, who so quivers beneath you.’

She studied him, but his innocent expression did not waver, not for an instant. ‘I dislike sleeping in a place of close death.’

‘As do we all, but our warlock here will see to the quelling of despairing spirits. None of us will succumb to fevers of the soul—’

‘No matter how stained your hands,’ T’riss cut in, dismounting and, ignoring them all, walking towards the water. ‘It flows quiet,’ she murmured, ‘does it not?’ Throwing off her makeshift garments, she strode naked into the water.

Faror Hend asked, ‘Must you gape so, lieutenant?’