Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

by Steven Erikson

  One gestured to the trunk as the wagons trundled up, and another rider, old and scar-faced, dismounted to collect it. When he crouched to lift it he had been clearly expecting something heavier, and almost tipped on to his backside when he straightened. He shot Orfantal a quizzical look before carrying the trunk to the first wagon, where the driver reached down and heaved it up to position it behind the backboard of his bench.

  Wreneck’s voice was strangely timid as he said, ‘The Citadel. He is nobleborn.’

  The lead rider simply nodded.

  Turning to Orfantal, Wreneck said, ‘Let me help you on to the horse. Her left eye is bad, so she angles to the right. Keep her head tight and stay on the left side of the track – no horse on her left, I mean, as that spooks her.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Wreneck’s scowl deepened. ‘You’ve never ridden this far all at once. You’ll be sore, but her back’s broad enough and you got a wide saddle here, so if you need to, you can sit cross-legged on her for a break.’

  ‘All right.’

  The stable boy almost threw Orfantal up astride the nag, checked the stirrups once again, and then stepped back. ‘That’s it,’ he said.

  Orfantal hesitated, and then said, ‘Goodbye, Wreneck.’

  The boy turned away, flinging a wave behind him as he set off up the hill back towards the estate.

  ‘We ain’t going so fast,’ the lead rider now said. ‘She’ll walk, won’t she?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Sir?’ The man snorted. He took his reins and nudged his mount forward.

  Orfantal waited until his mounted companions were past and then kicked his horse into their wake, keeping the beast on the left side of the track. Behind him the oxen jolted into motion at a switch from the driver.

  The three wild dogs ran off, as if fearing stones or arrows.

  * * *

  Wreneck paused on the slope and turned to watch them leave. The tears ran down cool on his cheeks and flies buzzed close.

  Back to that evil hag now, and no Orfantal to make life easier, to make it better than it was. She’d forbidden him to play with the little boy, and that was mean. She’d told him if she saw him even so much as talking to Orfantal, he’d lose what was left of his job, and then his ma and da would starve and so too his little sisters.

  He’d liked playing with the boy. It had reminded him of happier times, when the war was over and things seemed to be getting better for everyone. But then the stables burned down and they’d all heard that Sandalath was being sent away, and then Orfantal too, and the food in the kitchen wasn’t as good as it used to be and half the staff was sent off.

  And this was a miserable day, and Orfantal had looked so … lost.

  He should have defied her. He should have wrapped the runt in a big hug. They could have played together all morning while they waited. But he had been afraid. Of her. Of what she might do. But maybe this was better – if he’d showed any kindness then this parting would have been worse for Orfantal. A part of him railed at the thought, but he held to it. To ease his mind.

  The dogs returned, and, heads slung low, trailed him all the way back to the estate.

  * * *

  It was dusk by the time the caravan arrived outside Toras Keep, setting up camp in the clearing on the other side of the track opposite the keep’s gate. Blistered and sore from the ride, Orfantal clambered down from the horse. The scarred old man who’d loaded the trunk now came up to take the reins from his hands.

  ‘Likely her last journey,’ he said, pulling the mount away.

  Orfantal stared after them. Riding the animal for so long, he had almost forgotten that it was a living creature, the way it had plodded without surcease. He thought about its life, wondered what things it had witnessed in its long journey through the years. The eyes looked sad – Wreneck hadn’t even told him the mare’s name. He was sure it had one. All living things did, at least those living things that worked for people.

  He decided that the mare had once served a warrior in the wars, and had saved that Tiste countless times, yet had looked on helpless when betrayal came to strike down that brave warrior. This was why its eyes were so sad, and now all it longed to do was die, and in so dying re-join its master to haunt old battle grounds and ride through the mist on moonless nights so that villagers heard the heavy hoofs yet saw nothing, and no tracks were left in the mud come the morning. Still, villagers would know that a bold spirit had passed them in the darkness, and they would take up small stones from the path to ease its nightly travels. He’d seen such stones even on this track, in small heaps left to one side, because everyone knew that death was a restless place.

  The leader of the troop now approached Orfantal. ‘My name is Haral. You don’t call me “sir” because I ain’t one. I guard merchants and that’s all I do.’

  ‘Are there bandits?’ Orfantal asked.

  ‘In the hills round Tulas Hold, sometimes. Deniers. Now, you’ll be sharing Gripp’s tent – that’s the man taking care of your horse. You can trust him, when maybe some of these here you can’t, not with a little boy in the night. Even with you nobleborn and all. Some hurts people keep secret and that’s what bad ones rely on, you see?’

  Orfantal didn’t, but he nodded anyway.

  ‘They’re happy for the work, though, so they know if they cross me it’ll be misery for them. Still, I lost most of my regulars. Went to join Dracons’ Houseblades. I’m doing the same,’ he added, his weathered eyes narrowing as he looked across to the high blackstone walls of Toras Keep. A lone guard was seated on a bench beside the high gate, seemingly watching them all. ‘This is my last trip.’

  ‘Were you a soldier once, Haral?’

  The man glanced down. ‘In my generation, few weren’t.’

  ‘My name is Orfantal.’

  A scowl twisted his rough features. ‘Why’d she do that?’

  ‘Who, what?’

  ‘Your mother. That’s Yedan dialect – the monks’ holy language. Shake, it’s called.’

  Orfantal shrugged.

  One of the guards, who was crouching to build the cookfire nearby and clearly had been listening in, snorted a laugh and said, ‘Means “unwanted”, lad. If that don’t say it all and you off to Kharkanas.’

  Haral turned on the man. ‘I’ll be glad to see the end of you in my company, Narad. From now on, this trip, keep your damned mouth shut.’

  ‘Fine, as I’m still taking orders from you, but like you say, Haral, that won’t last much longer.’

  ‘He’s got the meaning wrong,’ Haral said to Orfantal. ‘The meaning’s more obscure, if you like. More like “unexpected”.’

  Narad snorted again.

  The toe of Haral’s heavy boot snapped Narad’s head to one side in a spray of blood. Dark-faced but silent, Haral then walked up to where the man writhed on the ground. He grasped hold of the long greasy hair and yanked the head up so that he could look into Narad’s face. He drove his fist into it, shattering the nose. A second punch slammed the mouth so hard against the teeth that Orfantal saw – through all the blood – the glint of white stitching a line beneath the man’s lower lip. Haral then threw the unconscious man back on to the ground and walked away without a backward glance.

  The others stood motionless for a half-dozen heartbeats, and then one walked over to drag Narad away from the smouldering fire.

  Orfantal could barely draw a breath. A fist was hammering inside his chest. He found that he was trembling, as if caught with fever.

  Gripp was at his side. ‘Easy there,’ he muttered. ‘It’s discipline, that’s all it is. Narad’s been pushing for weeks. We all knew it was coming and Abyss knows, we warned the fool enough. But he’s the dog that ain’t got brains enough to know its place. Sooner or later, y’got to kick ’im, and kick hard.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘I doubt it. If he ain’t come around by the morning, we’ll just leave him here. He lives or dies by his own straw. He just spat in the
face of all the rest – me, I woulda left him toasting on the damned fire. Now, let me show you how to raise a tent. Skills like that might come in handy one day.’

  In Orfantal’s mind, the faceless betrayer in all his battles now found a face, and a name. Narad, whom nobody wanted, who lived with a stuttered line of scars between chin and mouth, like a cruel smile he could never hide.

  * * *

  Emerging out from the hills, Master-at-arms Ivis and his company came within sight of Dracons Hold, its heavy bulk like a gnarled fist resting on the hard ground. He glanced over at the woman riding at his side. ‘We have arrived, milady, but as you can see, Lord Draconus is not in residence. I imagine his journey to the west will see him gone for some weeks yet.’

  The hostage nodded. She rode well, yet frailty surrounded her, as it had done since her collapse.

  Ivis had convinced her to remove all but the most necessary layers of clothing, and she was revealed as both shapely and thinner than he had at first thought. By his eye he might judge that she’d known childbirth, in the weight of her breasts and in her manner of moving, and of course such things were known to occur, with the illegitimate children quickly whisked away, given up or sent to be raised in ignorance by distant, remote family members. In truth, however, it was none of his business. She was now a hostage in the House of Dracons, twice-used by the desperate matriarch of House Drukorlas, and Ivis was determined to see her treated well.

  ‘Your rooms are awaiting you,’ he said as they rode towards the gate. ‘If they are not to your liking, be sure to inform me at once and we will see it put aright.’

  ‘Thank you, captain. That is most kind. It is a most imposing house, rising so above the walls.’

  ‘The Lord brought wealth with him when he took up residence.’

  ‘Whence did he come?’

  Ivis shook his head. ‘Even we who serve in his household are not certain of that. Chosen as heir by Lady Dracons, a cousin she said. In any case,’ he added, ‘he served well in the wars – no one can deny that. Well enough to earn the regard of Mother Dark.’

  ‘A most loving regard, I have heard.’

  ‘As to that I cannot say, milady. But it suits us well to think so, does it not?’

  She studied him briefly, as if uncertain as to his meaning, and then smiled.

  Ahead, the gates had been opened and they rode up the track and then into the shadow beneath the heavy lintel stone. Ivis saw Sandalath frowning up at the unknown words carved into the stone, but she ventured no query, and then they were through, riding into the courtyard, where servants and grooms clustered in waiting and voices rose in greeting from a half-dozen Houseblades arrayed in a line. Ivis frowned at the presentation – in his absence, discipline had slackened and he reminded himself to plug the ears of this sorry lot once the hostage was inside.

  Dismounting, he passed over the reins to a groom and moved up to help Sandalath down. It seemed her frailty had come upon her again, sudden as a chill, and the relaxed ease she had revealed on occasion during the long ride vanished. Once she was on her feet, servants drew up to fuss over her.

  ‘Milady,’ said Ivis. ‘The head of the house-servants now serves you in the absence of Lord Draconus. Hilith, present yourself.’

  The elderly woman so named had been standing back, close to the stone steps fronting the house, and now she stepped forward with a stiff bow and said, ‘Hostage, we welcome you to this house. I see the journey has wearied you. A bath is ready.’

  ‘That is most kind,’ Sandalath said.

  ‘If you will follow me?’ Hilith asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Sandalath stepped forward, and then paused and turned back to Ivis. ‘Captain, you have been a most courteous escort. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure, milady.’

  Hilith instructed two maids to lead Sandalath inside, and then quickly stepped close to Ivis. ‘Captain,’ she hissed, ‘her title is hostage and nothing else. You accord her a title that does not belong to her, not yet in her own house, and never in this one!’

  Ivis leaned closer, as if to hint at a formal bow of acquiescence. Instead, he said, in a low tone, ‘Old woman, you are no queen to so command me. I will choose the honorific our guest deserves. She rode well and without complaint. If you have complaint, await the pleasure of our lord upon his return. In the meantime, spit out that sour grape you so love to suck on, and be dutiful.’

  ‘We shall return to this,’ she said in a rasp. ‘As you said, I am in charge of the house in our lord’s absence—’

  ‘The servants, maids and cooks, yes. Not me.’

  ‘It is unseemly, this twice-used hostage—’

  ‘For which the hostage is not to blame. Now, be gone from this courtyard, where my command holds reign, and if any rumours return to me of your gnawing misery set upon the hostage of this house, we shall indeed return to this.’

  He watched her stalk off, and then he glanced across to see a row of grinning Houseblades. ‘Smiling, are you? Now isn’t that a pleasing sight? Comportment so slovenly I nearly choked in shame to see you. Let us see, shall we, how fare those smiles in the course of double drills. Straighten up, you dogs! Eyes forward!’

  * * *

  The servants struggled with the travel chest as they carried it into the room. Looking round, marvelling at the vastness of the chamber that was to be her quarters, Sandalath gestured to one wall. ‘Set that over there. No, do not open it – the only clothing I will use is in those saddle bags – terribly creased by now, I should imagine. They will need cleaning.’ This last detail she addressed to the two maids standing before her. Both women, younger than Sandalath by a few years, quickly bowed and set to unpacking the saddle bags. The other servants retreated from the room.

  A moment later Hilith entered, glanced once at the rumpled clothing now appearing from the dusty leather bags, and then faced Sandalath. ‘Hostage, if you will accompany me, we shall see to your bath.’

  ‘Is the water hot? I prefer it hot.’

  The old woman blinked and then nodded. ‘It is indeed, hostage. Or it was when we last left it. I imagine it is cooling even as we speak.’

  ‘I trust the fire is close, Hilith, should more heat be required. Now, please do lead on. Afterwards, I wish a tour of this house I now call my own.’

  Hilith tilted her head and then marched from the room.

  Sandalath followed.

  ‘Upon the Lord’s return,’ the matron said over her shoulder, ‘the two maids attending you shall be at your call. I, however, have other responsibilities that will demand my attention.’

  ‘Day and night, I am sure.’

  Hilith shot a glance back at her and then continued on. ‘Just so.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ Sandalath said, ‘you will attend to me, as if the house were my own.’

  ‘Just so,’ Hilith snapped without turning this time.

  ‘If the bath is insufficiently heated, I will wait for the remedy.’

  ‘Of course, hostage.’

  ‘I am curious, Hilith. Were you in charge of the household staff in the time of Lady Dracons?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Then you have indeed given your life to this service.’

  ‘Without regret, hostage.’

  ‘Indeed? That is very well, then, isn’t it?’

  She made no reply to that. Their swift passage down the hallway came to an end at a landing leading down. Hilith led Sandalath down the stairs, into a steamy laundry room dominated by a huge basin. Two maids – laundry-beaters by their chafed hands – stood in waiting beside the basin.

  ‘These will attend to you now,’ Hilith said, turning to leave.

  The smell of lye was overwhelming, and Sandalath felt her eyes beginning to water. ‘A moment,’ she said.

  ‘Hostage?’ Hilith’s expression was innocent.

  ‘Tell me, does the Lord bathe in this chamber?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Then neither shall I. I stand in his stead in his
absence, and I will bathe accordingly. Have freshly boiled, clean water brought to the appropriate chamber. I wish this done in haste, so I will entrust the task’s overseeing to you, Hilith.’ Sandalath gestured to one of the maids. ‘This one will lead me to the proper bathing room.’

  Hilith’s narrow face was pale despite the heat. ‘As you wish, hostage.’

  In her first time as a hostage, in the Citadel, there had been a frightening hag still tottering in the service of Lord Nimander’s household, and she had been most cruel – until by chance Andarist was made aware of the endless torment. That hag had disappeared. If Hilith were to prove a similar harridan, then Sandalath would speak to Draconus, and see the woman deposed and sent away.

  She was not a child any more, to cower before such creatures.

  As she walked with the young laundress, she said, ‘If I have made an enemy, I trust I will in turn have many allies?’

  Wide eyes lifted to her, and then the girl’s round face split into a broad smile. ‘Hundreds, mistress! Thousands!’

  ‘My father was a hero in the wars,’ Sandalath said, ‘and I am his daughter.’

  ‘In the wars! Like Ivis!’

  ‘Like Ivis,’ she agreed. ‘Is Ivis well liked?’

  ‘He never looks happy, mistress, and is known to be harsh with his soldiers. But to us he is ever kind.’

  ‘As he was to me. Will you tell me more of him?’

  ‘All I know!’

  ‘Do you think him handsome? Soldiers have a way about them, I think.’

  ‘But he is old, mistress!’

  ‘Perhaps in your eyes, he is. But I see a man still in his years of strength, younger than my father, and sure of command. No doubt Lord Draconus values him most highly.’

  They came to a heavy wooden door, artfully carved in intricate geometric patterns. The girl pushed it open to reveal a narrow room tiled from floor to ceiling, and at the far end a wash basin and then a tub of copper, large enough to accommodate a man. As Sandalath entered the chamber, she felt waves of heat rising from the floor. Crouching, she set a palm flat upon the tiles. ‘There is fire beneath?’