‘Draconus invited you into his world, Feren. He did not care that you were vulnerable.’
‘When he cut me from Arathan, he saved both of us. I know you can’t see it that way. Or you won’t. You want to hurt Draconus, just as you hurt Olar Ethil. It’s just the same, and it’s all down to your need to strike out, to make someone else feel the pain you’re feeling. My wars are over with, Rint.’
‘Mine are not!’
She nodded. ‘I see that.’
‘I expected you to stand with me, Feren.’
She turned on him. ‘Why? Are you so certain that you’re doing all this for me? I’m not. I don’t want it! I just want my brother back!’
Rint seemed to crumple before her eyes, and once more he sank down to the ground, covering his face with his hands.
‘Abyss take us,’ Ville said. ‘Stop this. Both of you. Rint, we will hear your arguments and we will vote on them. Feren, you are with child. No one would expect you to unsheathe your sword. Not now.’
She shook her head. Poor Ville didn’t understand, but she could not blame him for that.
‘We have far to go,’ Galak added in a soft tone. ‘And on the morrow, we shall reach the hills, and find a place for Raskan’s body. A place of gentle regard to embrace his bones. When we return to our homelands I will ride on to House Dracons and inform Captain Ivis of the location. For now, my friends, let us make camp.’
Feren looked out on the plain to the south. There was a path there, distant now and fading, that trekked westward into strange lands. There were patches of ground with soft grasses that had known the pressure of a man and a woman drawn together by unquenchable needs. The same sky that was above her now looked down on those remnants, those faint and vanishing impressions, and the wind that slid across her face, plucking at the tears on her cheeks, whipped and swirled but flowed ever southward, and sometime in the night would brush those grasses.
Life could reach far, into the past where it grasped hold of things and dragged them howling into the present. And distance could breed resentment, when all the promises of the future remained for ever beyond reach. And the child shifting in her womb, as the day died, felt like a thing lost in the wilderness, and as its faint cries reached her from no known place she knelt, eyes closed, hands over her ears.
* * *
Rint dared not look again at his sister; not to see her as she was, on her knees and broken by the words they had flung between them. He left Ville and Galak to make ready the camp, and sat staring into the northeast, trapped in his own desolation.
It was a struggle to envisage the face of his wife. When he imagined her sitting wrapped in furs with a newborn child against her breast, he saw a stranger. Two strangers. His hands would not cease trembling. They felt hot, as if they still held the fires they had unleashed in that moment of fury, so fierce with brutal vengeance. He did not regret the pain he had delivered upon Olar Ethil; but when he thought of it, he saw himself first, a figure silhouetted by towering flames, and the screams filling the smoke and ashes rising into the air became the voice of the trees, the agony of blackening leaves and snapping branches. He stood then, like a god, face lit in the reflection of his undeniable triumph. A witness to the destruction, even when that destruction was his own. Such a man knew no love, not for a wife, not for a child. Such a man knew nothing but violence and so made of himself a stranger to everyone.
Insects spun through the dusk. Behind him he heard Ville muttering something to Galak, and the smoke from the cookfire drifted past him, like serpents escaping another realm, fleeing off into the gathering darkness. He looked across to where he had left Raskan’s cloth-wrapped body. The hands were stretched out, bruised and swollen, and where the leather strings were tied round the wrists they now bit deep. Beyond them were the moccasins, lying on the grass. Draconus was free with his gifts indeed.
Urusander would find a way. He would crush the madness and force peace upon Kurald Galain. But blood would flow and the struggle would be arduous. If only the guilty died, then such deaths could be deemed just, and so make of each unfortunate murder an act of execution. Justice was at the heart of retribution, after all.
For too long had the highborn lounged, smug and complacent with the privileges that came with the wielding of power. But nothing of worth was given for free. Privilege was a bright weed growing on the spilled blood of the enslaved, and Rint saw nothing precious in such bitter flowers. When he looked ahead, he could think of nothing but smoke and flames, the only answers he had left.
It was Draconus’s noble blood that had yoked them all, dragging them through misery and unfeeling abuse. Without his title, he was no different from any of them. And yet they had bowed before him. They had knelt in deference, and by each and every such act they but served to confirm the Lord’s own sense of superiority. These were the rituals of inequity, and everyone knew their role.
He thought back to Tutor Sagander’s nonsense – the appalling lessons the old man had thrust upon Arathan on the first days out. The self-righteous could argue unto their last breath, so certain were they of their stance, and yet with outrage would they view any accusation of being self-serving. But smugness filled the silence after every pronouncement they made, as if condescension were virtue’s reward.
The Borderswords were men and women who had rejected the stilted rigidity of Kharkanas and sought out a rawer truth in the wild lands upon the very edge of civilization. They claimed to live under older laws, the kind that bound all forms of life, but Rint wondered now if the very sentiment had been forged on an anvil of lies. Innocence withered before knowing eyes just as it had once withered behind them. The first foot set upon virgin ground despoiled; the first touch stained; the first embrace broke the bones of the wild.
Outside House Dracons, it had been Ville – or was it Galak – who had bemoaned the slaughter of the beasts, and yet dreamed of taking the last creature by spear or arrow, if only to bring an end to its loneliness. That was a sentiment breathless in its stupidity and tragedy. It arrived as punctuation, and only idiotic silence could follow. And yet Rint knew the truth of it, and felt its heavy reverberation, like a curse to haunt his kind down the ages.
He would fight for justice. And, if need be, he would expose to the Borderswords the sordid delusion of their so-called neutrality. Life was a war against a thousand enemies, from the sustenance carved from nature to the insanity of a people’s will to do wrong in the name of right. His hands trembled, he now knew, from the blood they had spilled, and their eagerness to spill yet more.
There was a truth that came with standing as would a god, with eyes fixed upon the destruction his malign will had wrought. To be a god was to know utter loneliness, and yet find comfort in isolation. When one stood alone with nothing but power in one’s hands, violence was a seductive lure.
And now, dear Ville, I long for a spear to the back, an arrow to the throat.
Give me war, then. I have walked from complex truth to simple lie, and I cannot go back.
It is no crime to end a life that sees what it has lost.
The sun was a red smear to the west. Behind him, Galak announced that supper was ready, and Rint climbed to his feet. He looked across to his sister, but she had not turned at the invitation. He thought of the child growing within her, and felt only sadness. Another stranger. Blinking and then wailing to a new world. Only innocent before the first breath drawn. Only innocent until the birth of need and its desperate voice. A sound we all hear and will hear for the rest of our lives.
What god would not flee that?
‘We have company,’ said Ville, and, straightening, he drew out his sword.
Five beasts were approaching from the west. Tall as horses, but heavier in the way of predators. Black-furred with heads slung low, bearing collars of iron blades. Insects swarmed in clouds around them.
‘Sheathe your weapon,’ Rint told Ville. ‘Jheleck.’
‘I know what they are,’ snapped Ville.
‘And we are at p
eace.’
‘What we are, Rint, is four Borderswords alone on the plain.’
One of the huge wolves held the carcass of an antelope in its massive jaws. The antelope seemed small, like a hare in the mouth of a hunting dog. Rint shook his head. ‘Put the weapon away, Ville. If they wanted to kill us, they would have rushed in. The war is over. They were vanquished, and like any beaten dog they will yield to our command.’ But his mouth was dry, and the horses shifted uneasily as the Soletaken drew closer.
He felt something come to his eyes, stinging, and saw the five forms blur, as if melting into the dusk, only to reappear as fur-clad savages. They paused to remove their collars, the one bearing the carcass now throwing it over a shoulder. The cloud of flies lifted briefly, and then swept down once again.
During the wars, there had been few opportunities to look upon the Jheleck in their upright, sembled form. Even when a village was attacked, the fleeing non-combatants had quickly veered to aid their escape, and Rint recalled riding down many of them, pinning them to the earth with his lance and hearing their cries of pain amidst the snapping of their jaws. There had been much to admire and respect in the wolves they fought and killed. Individually, they were far more formidable than a Forulkan. Massed as armies, however, they had been next to useless. Jheleck were at their deadliest in small packs, such as the one that now drew to within a dozen paces of their camp.
Looking upon them now, however, Rint saw five savages, rank with filth and mostly naked under loose fur skins. The one bearing the antelope stepped closer and set the carcass down. Showing filthy teeth in a smile, he spoke in guttural Tiste. ‘Meat for your fire, Bordersword.’ Dark eyes shifted over to Ville. ‘We saw the flash of your blade and it amused us. But where is your memory? Our war is done, is it not?’ He waved a hand. ‘You cross Jheleck land and we permit it. We come to you as hosts, with food. But if you would rather fight, why, we will happily accept the challenge. Indeed, we even agree to stand against you on two legs, as you see us, to more even the odds.’
Rint said, ‘You offered us meat for our fire. Will you join us in the repast, Jhelarkan?’
The man laughed. ‘Just so. Peace and hostages, like jaws around the throat. We’ll not twitch, until it is time for the slave to turn on the master, and that time is not now.’ He looked back to his companions and they came forward. Eyes fixing on Rint once more, the savage said, ‘I am Rusk, blood kin to Sagral of the Derrog Clan.’
‘I am Rint, and with me are Feren, Ville and Galak.’
Rusk nodded at his sister. ‘We can use her tonight?’
‘No.’
‘Oh well,’ Rusk said, shrugging. ‘In truth, we did not expect you to share. Not the Tiste way. But if not her for the meat, then what gift will you offer us?’
‘Something in return, Rusk, at some other time. If that is not acceptable, then take back your gift and with it the word itself, for gift it is not.’
Rusk laughed. ‘Tell the Borderswords, then, of my generosity.’
‘I will. Galak, take care of the carcass. Rusk, Galak is skilled with the skinning knife. You will have a decent hide at least.’
‘And useful antlers and useful bones, yes. And full bellies. Good. Now, we sit.’
The other Jhelarkan lumbered up and sat in a rough half-circle facing the Borderswords. Except for Rusk, they were young, and seemed ignorant of the Tiste language. Their leader squatted, the grin never leaving his dirt-smeared face. With Feren forbidden him, he now ignored her, and Rint was glad.
‘We do not agree with giving hostages, Borderswords,’ Rusk now said, ‘but we have done so. Fine pups one and all. If you harm them, we shall slaughter the Tiste and burn Kharkanas to the ground. We shall split your bones and bury your skulls. We shall piss on your temples and rut in your palaces.’
‘No harm will come to the hostages,’ Rint said, ‘so long as you remain true to your words.’
‘So you Tiste keep saying. Even the Jaghut nod and say it is so. But now we hear that Tiste kill Tiste. You are a pack with a weak leader, and too many among you eager to take his place. There is blood in the mouth and fur on the ground in Kurald Galain.’
Rint held his gaze on the Jheleck and said, ‘We have been away for some time. Do you voice rumours or have you witnessed the things you describe?’
Rusk shrugged. ‘War rides the winds and lifts the hackles. We see you wound yourselves, and we wait to strike.’
Ville grunted. ‘So much for keeping your word!’
‘We fear for the safety of our pups, Bordersword. Just as you would your own.’
‘With you upon our borders,’ Ville retorted, ‘we had cause for fear.’
‘But that is done now,’ Rusk said, still grinning. ‘We live with the new peace, Bordersword. The peace of empty villages and empty lands. Often, we look upon your hunting packs, as they travel with impunity across our homeland, seeking the last of the wild beasts. And when those beasts are gone, what shall the Jheleck eat? Grass?’ He nodded. ‘Peace, yes, plenty of that, written in bleached bones in old camps.’
Galak hacked at a hind joint.
‘You have pups with you,’ Rint said, nodding at the others.
‘I teach them how to hunt, and so we all learn to go hungry, and come to understand all that we have lost. One day, they will be savage killers, and this night they take your scent and will keep it for all time.’
Feren said, ‘If you are going hungry, why offer any to us?’
Rusk scowled. ‘A host can do no less. But you Tiste do not comprehend honour. Only four days ago, the Borderswords gathered and rode out on to our land. They have word of a bhederin herd coming down from the north, and would make slaughter. They ride past our villages and laugh as they race our warriors to kill-sites. And when they have killed hundreds of the beasts, will they offer any to us? No. They will claim those carcasses as their own and take the meat, hides and bones away. We watch. We smile. And we vow to remember all that we see.’
‘The Bordersword villages need meat for the winter,’ Ville said.
‘And long before the war, you took all you could from our lands, and so we made war—’
‘And lost it!’
Rusk smiled again and nodded. ‘We lost, and you may believe that you won. But when all the beasts are gone, will your victory fill your bellies? Will it taste any less bitter than our defeat? What you own you must nurture. But you Tiste do not understand that. All that you own you use, until it is used up, and then you cast your vision past your borders, and scheme to take again, this time from others.’
‘I have hunted on your lands,’ Ville said. ‘I saw no nurture passing through your kill-sites.’
‘Then you did not look carefully enough. We take the weak and leave the strong.’
‘You took every beast,’ Ville said.
Rusk laughed. ‘We were defeated. We learned your ways of killing, but we found the winters long when we had naught but ghosts to hunt. You killed thousands of us. You made us few, and the irony of that is that it returned us to our old ways. And now we breed but rarely, and keep only the strongest pups. And when at last all the Tiste are dead, then we shall nurture the herds, until their numbers are vast once more, and we will make each new day the same as the day past, for all time, and know contentment.’ He held up his hands. ‘So we dream. But then your hunters pour over the border and the wise ones among us see the truth awaiting us. Yours is the language of death, and it will speak to us.’
Meat sizzled on skewers over the fire. The night had drawn close. Rint pushed away Rusk’s words and stared into the flames. He thought he could see the witch’s face, twisting with pain, the mouth opened to an endless shriek he could not hear but felt in his bones. He had wanted to spend this night alone, saying little and quick to take to his bedding. Instead, he found himself face to face with a filthy half-beast who smiled a smile devoid of humour, and whose dark eyes belonged to a wolf.
‘Rusk,’ said Galak, ‘when did you see the Bordersword hu
nters?’
‘Hunters, butchers, skinners, bone-splitters. Dogs, horses, mules and oxen pulling wagons. On another day their numbers would make them an army. They rode armed and wary, with scouts tracking our own hunters.’ He waved a greasy hand. ‘Days past now.’
‘How many days? Five? Ten?’
Rusk sat forward, forearms on the knees of his crossed legs, and offered Galak that same, hard smile. ‘We have kin, scouting your lands. They move at night and remain hidden. We have seen armies on this side of the river. One rode into Abara Delack. Another gathers in the hills of House Dracons—’
‘That one is the Lord’s own,’ said Galak. ‘You evade answering, Rusk.’
‘I am indifferent to your need, Bordersword. I tell you what I choose to tell you. Your civil war has begun. We rejoice and sniff the wind for smoke, and look to the skies for the carrion birds. You killed us before, but now you kill each other and this pleases us.’
It was not long before the carcass was stripped down to the bones. Galak rolled up the antelope’s hide and offered it to Rusk, along with the antlers and the long bones. Grunting, the Jhelarkan leader gestured to his hunters and as one they rose.
‘Your company is bitter,’ he announced. ‘We return to the night. Remember our generosity, Borderswords, and tell the tale of this meeting to your hunters, so that they may at last understand courtesy.’
‘It is a thought,’ Rint allowed, ‘that we might work best together. To hunt the great herds and to share in the bounty.’
‘Rint, there are no great herds.’
The figures withdrew from the fire’s light, and in moments were gone.
Ville spat into the flames. ‘I think he lied,’ he said in a growl. ‘About those armies. He would stir us to alarm and fear.’
Galak said, ‘We well know that there is an army at House Dracons, Ville, just as he described. He may have thrown more than a few truths into his words to us.’
‘And Abara Delack? Why would any army, rebel or otherwise, occupy Abara Delack?’
‘We don’t know,’ Rint said, wanting to end this debate. ‘We’ve been away for too long. There is no point in speculating. Listen, our bellies are full for the first time in months. Let us sleep now, with the aim of riding hard on the morrow.’
Forge of Darkness Page 73