Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

by Steven Erikson

  Riding on, she drew opposite Gurren’s stone house and reined in. She eyed the shuttered windows, and then the faint wisps of smoke rising from the chimney. Dismounting, Serap left her horse standing on the track and made her way to the front door. She thumped on the blackwood.

  There was no response.

  Serap waited for a time and then made her way round to the back yard. Pushing through the gate, she saw Gurren hunched over the forge, stirring the coals.

  She approached, but from one side, to give him the opportunity to see her. He offered up a single glance then returned to his work.

  ‘Old Smith,’ she said. ‘We’ve not met, but I know of you and, of course, of your wife. You have my deepest sympathies.’

  He made no reply.

  ‘Gurren, where is your daughter?’

  ‘In the house.’

  ‘She does not come to the door.’

  ‘Ain’t surprised.’

  ‘Why?’

  He faced her. He was not as old as his local title suggested, but he was bowed; the muscles from a lifetime with hammer and tongs were still visible but the skin around them was slack, as if he had been ill for a long time. The watery grey eyes were like broken glass. He spat yellow mucus on to the ground and said, ‘Night before last she barely made it back to the door, beaten half t’death. Witch Hale comes over and works on her, and comes out and tells me. Broken jaw, broken cheekbone; won’t see good outa her left eye ever again.’

  ‘Someone killed the man who did that, Gurren.’

  ‘I know. Hale got the girl to talk.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  Gurren’s face was impossibly flat, impossibly empty of all expression. ‘From what Hale could make out, Urusander’s lad plucked her, but tenderly. But Millick saw enough to guess and took the rest out on her. And now Millick’s dead, choked in North Lane last night, and Osserc’s gone.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Serap said, seeing no need to dissemble. ‘Some rumours are going around that you might have been the one doing the killing.’

  Gurren nodded. ‘I set those out, lieutenant.’

  ‘To muddy the trail.’

  He eyed her, and then said, ‘I been holding a long hate for your lord, and your Legion that saw my wife killed, taken from me and Renarr.’

  She nodded. ‘Poets have written of Urusander’s grief over your wife’s death.’

  ‘Poets can go fuck themselves.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘I’m dying,’ Gurren said. ‘Witch Hale says it’s too late. Had my doubts about Millick all along, but she was set on him, you see, and with me leaving and all …’

  ‘I’m sorry how it turned out—’

  ‘I’d be a lot sorrier,’ he snapped, ‘leavin’ her to a lifetime of beatings and maybe worse. So it’s like this. I owe Osserc and if I could, why, I’d kneel before him, take that murdering hand of his, and kiss it.’

  Serap stared, struck silent.

  Gurren turned back to the forge. ‘Tell your lord this, lieutenant. Between us, now, the water is clear.’

  ‘I will tell him,’ she whispered.

  ‘But I want my daughter taken care of.’

  She nodded. ‘I will swear to that.’

  He shot her a hard look. ‘Legion vow?’

  ‘Legion vow, Gurren.’

  The man suddenly smiled, and years vanished from him, despite the sickness behind his eyes. ‘I’ll be seeing my wife soon. There’s nothing like waiting, when the waiting’s about to end. Go on with you, then. I got me some chains to melt down for the nailmonger, and this fire ain’t nearly hot enough yet.’

  * * *

  ‘Commander, it is good to see you again.’

  Vatha Urusander seemed to study her for a moment before gesturing her to sit. They were in the room Hunn Raal called the Vault. Shelves lined all the walls, reaching to the ceiling. Scrolls, bound books, manuscripts and clay tablets bowed every shelf. A single work table dominated the room. Two chairs were pushed up against it, while the lower, padded chairs they now occupied stood like sentinels to either side of the low doorway.

  The positioning was awkward in that Serap could not face Urusander unless she perched sideways on the seat. As expected, the commander seemed indifferent to this detail. There was an air of distraction about him that Serap had seen each time she had visited over the past two years, and she gauged it as the look of a man slowly losing himself. It pained her.

  ‘How are Sevegg and Risp?’ Urusander asked.

  Startled, Serap shrugged. ‘They fare well, sir. Busy.’

  ‘Busy with what?’

  ‘Sir, I have news from Kharkanas.’

  He glanced away, as if to study the archives lining the shelves opposite. ‘Hunn Raal has sent you.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And no doubt Risp and Sevegg are running horses into the ground to deliver word to the garrisons.’

  ‘Sir, there is need, once again, for the Legion. There is need for you.’

  ‘There will be no invasion from the Sea of Vitr. The very idea is ridiculous.’ He met her eyes and his gaze was sharp and hard. ‘Hunn Raal would have the realm stirred in panic. He sows fear with the sole aim of resurrecting the Legion – not to meet this imagined threat, but to coerce the highborn, Draconus and ultimately Mother Dark. He still bears the wound of our dismissal.’

  ‘I will not lie, sir, he does bear that wound. We all do.’

  ‘Old soldiers cannot fit in a peaceful world,’ Urusander said. ‘They feel like ghosts and they hunger for the zeal of life, but the only life they know is one of violence. War is a drug to them, one they cannot do without. And for many others, to see an old soldier is to know of sacrifices they never made, and to feel an obligation they come to resent, and so they would rather not see that old soldier. They would rather forget. For yet others, Serap, an old soldier reminds them of their own losses, and the grief stings anew. It is right that we go away, but more than that, it is right that we embrace silence and solitude. We have devoured horror and now we are as ghosts, because we stand next to death and we cannot leave its side.’

  Serap stared at her commander. His words, delivered leaden as pronouncements, felt cold inside her now, an unwelcome gift filled with unwelcome truths. ‘Sir, an Azathanai emerged from the Sea of Vitr, a woman. She was found by a Warden and escorted through Glimmer Fate. That Warden named her T’riss. Monks of Yan Monastery intercepted them and commandeered the protection of the Azathanai. They brought her to their Hold. This proved a grave error. Sir, the woman resurrected the long-dead river god worshipped by the Yan and the Yedan. She then marched, in the fearful company of monks, to Kharkanas. Upon entering the city she raised the river in flood. Water dripped from stone to the very door of Mother Dark’s Chamber of Night.’

  ‘A moment,’ cut in Urusander. ‘You describe an assault upon Mother Dark.’

  ‘I do, sir. There were casualties.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The High Priestess Syntara—’

  ‘She is dead?’

  ‘No. In the Chamber of Night T’riss assailed the High Priestess and left her … sullied, in Mother Dark’s eyes. She was forced to flee and now seeks sanctuary with the Legion—’

  ‘Hold!’ Urusander rose suddenly. ‘What you say makes no sense. Mother Dark is not cruel. She would not cast out her own High Priestess! What you describe is madness!’

  ‘Perhaps I misspoke,’ Serap said. ‘We cannot know for certain what occurred in the Chamber of Night, in the moment of confrontation between the Azathanai and Mother Dark. Even Lord Anomander was late in arriving. But Syntara fled the chamber. She sought out Hunn Raal – sir, the High Priestess is changed, manifestly changed. It may be that what she now possesses – and what Mother Dark’s servants proclaim – is indeed a curse. But perhaps it is the very opposite. It may in truth be a gift. Sir, she is coming here, to you—’

  ‘And you imagine I will grant her sanctuary – from Mother Dark? Have you all lost your minds
?’

  ‘Sir, she comes to you, not as the commander of the Legion, but as a scholar, as one who has delved the histories. She comes begging for your knowledge. What is this that she now holds within herself? Is it a curse as her rivals say, or is it a gift?’

  ‘Where is the Azathanai now?’

  ‘Banished by Mother Dark.’

  ‘Has Draconus returned from the west?’

  Serap blinked. ‘No, he has not yet returned, not even to Dracons Hold, where awaits the army he has raised.’

  ‘Army? Don’t be absurd – the Consort seeks consolidation, lest any highborn take advantage of perceived weakness. He knows how precarious his position is, and how resented he is as well. Do you think I am unable to see through Hunn Raal’s incessant reports? No, Serap, and I sense Hunn Raal’s subtle twisting of all that you tell me here.’

  The coldness inside her worsened and she had to struggle not to drop her eyes from his unwavering regard. ‘Sir, there is no twisting to the truth that the Deniers are awakened to their old faith. That the ancient river god has summoned its worshippers, and indeed has made both the Yan and the Yedan kneel to its suzerainty. The cult of Mother Dark is under threat. Kharkanas, upon the banks of Dorssan Ryl, is in danger of inundation. The old temple in the very heart of the Citadel has been usurped. If all this is not alarming enough, sir, we have reports – sketchy ones, to be true – of demons upon the shore of the Sea of Vitr. Captains Sharenas and Kagamandra Tulas are even now returning from the Sea of Vitr, and they ride not for the forts of the Wardens – they ride here, sir, to you.’

  Urusander had been standing, his hands upon the back of the chair he had been sitting in earlier, through all that Serap recounted. When she finished she saw the knuckles of his hands bloom white, and then, in a blur, the chair was sent across the small room. It collided with the heavy table and broke apart as if struck by a siege stone. The sound of the impact, the shattering and splintering of wood, hung in the air.

  Serap felt driven back into her seat by the ferocity of Urusander’s fury. Struck silent, she made no move, not wanting to draw his attention in any way.

  He was staring at the wreckage he had made. Without looking at her, he spoke in a low tone, ‘What else?’

  She fought to speak evenly. ‘Sir, there are rumours. Deniers among the Hust Legion. Deniers among the Wardens of the Outer Reach. Deniers among the Borderswords. Even among the highborn. All who refuse the cult of Mother Dark. We face a religious war, sir, and we are compromised on all sides. We cannot even be sure if all this was not long in planning, from the rise of the Azathanai to the rebirth of the river god. What is undeniable is this: Mother Dark is weakened, and neither Draconus nor Anomander and his brothers nor even all the remaining – loyal – highborn and their Houseblades will be enough – not against a peasant uprising in the countryside, an uprising bolstered by the Hust, the Wardens and the Borderswords.’

  ‘I do not want this,’ Urusander whispered.

  ‘There is a way through this, sir.’

  ‘I am done with it, all of it.’ He glared at her. ‘I do not want this!’

  Serap rose. ‘Commander, we both know well Captain Hunn Raal’s ambitions, and so we must always view his zeal with caution. But he is no fool and his loyalty to you is absolute. We are not as unprepared as you might fear.’

  ‘I know why he sent you,’ Urusander said, turning away. ‘Not Risp, with her bloodlust. Not Sevegg, who can’t think past her crotch.’

  ‘Kurald Galain needs you, sir. Kurald Galain needs the Legion. However, I am neither blind nor deaf. Name a successor to the command and—’

  Urusander snorted, but it was a bitter sound, and then he said, ‘There is no one.’

  ‘Sir, it is as you have said many times: you have done your duty. You have found a new life, with new interests, and they are yours by right—’

  ‘Abyss knows they are that!’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘I know Hunn Raal thinks me unmanned. He fears I have lost the necessary edge, that I am dulled by inactivity.’

  ‘He does not discuss his fears with me, sir. If he did, I would tell him, in no uncertain terms, that he is wrong.’

  ‘Save the flattery, Serap. He might well be right. I have hidden myself away here. I sought to make a new … a new … setting. For my – for me and my son. The Legion is behind me, where I left it, and there I wanted it to stay.’

  ‘Sir, about your son—’

  ‘He is gone. We argued …’ Urusander shook his head. ‘He is gone.’

  ‘It may be, sir, that you have underestimated him.’

  ‘I have made mistakes.’

  ‘I have a tale to tell you, then, about Osserc. About your son.’

  He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Not now. You tell me there is a way through this.’ He faced her. ‘The highborn are not my enemy. I will not be the deliverer of civil war to Kurald Galain.’

  ‘We can win over the loyal highborn, sir.’

  Urusander’s sneer was ugly. ‘By turning on Draconus.’

  ‘He is no friend of yours.’

  ‘He is the man Mother Dark loves.’

  ‘I doubt that, else she would marry him.’

  ‘If she did the highborn would surely rise and where would that put us? The Legion will defend Mother Dark. If this means defending Draconus too, then so be it. Thus: civil war.’

  ‘This must be the reason, then,’ said Serap, ‘why she does not marry him.’

  ‘Probably,’ Urusander growled. He bent down and picked up the back of the shattered chair. Fragments of the arms hung from it. ‘Wedding gift,’ he muttered, ‘these.’

  ‘They will accept a husband for Mother Dark, sir, but not from among their own. Someone from the outside, who curries no favours, who owes not one among them and would remain immune to their advances.’

  ‘Ridiculous.’

  ‘Mother Dark is not blind to expedience, sir. And if I may be so bold, neither are you. We stand in service to Mother Dark. We did so once, and now we shall do so again.’

  He let the chair-back fragment fall to the floor, and then eyed her. ‘You say we are not unprepared.’

  ‘No sir, we are not.’

  ‘I must speak with Mother Dark, before I do anything else.’

  ‘Sir, forgive me, but there may not be time. That said, sir, I am at your disposal.’

  ‘I was going to send you after my son.’

  ‘I think it best we let him alone. For a time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The tale I spoke of earlier, sir. Will you hear it now?’

  He strode to the doorway. ‘Walk with me, Serap. The air is too close in here and I need the feel of light upon my face.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Speak to me, then, of my son.’

  * * *

  The sound of many horses reached Gurren as he was shovelling coal, and upon hearing the mounts drawing up on the street in front of his house, he dropped the shovel, dusted his blackened hands, and made his way towards the side passage.

  He was halfway along when he saw the soldiers, at least a dozen, and among them two Legion healers. Coming to the corner he saw that Witch Hale had emerged from the house and stood blocking the front door. Gurren pushed between a pair of soldiers. One of the healers moved close to Hale and the two began talking.

  An officer spoke to Gurren. ‘Old Smith, forgive us this intrusion—’

  ‘I might,’ he said, ‘or I might not.’

  ‘Lord Urusander sent us, sir—’

  ‘Don’t “sir” me.’

  ‘My apologies. I did not mean to imply rank, only respect.’ Gurren’s eyes narrowed. The officer went on. ‘Your daughter has suffered injuries.’

  ‘Witch Hale’s seen to them.’

  ‘Lord Urusander holds the utmost regard for Witch Hale,’ the officer replied. ‘But our Legion healers are trained in the mending of bones and the purging of infection. Cutter Aras, who speaks with the witch, appre
nticed under Ilgast Rend. They have discovered sorceries—’

  ‘As you say,’ Gurren interrupted, and then he moved past the officer, walking over to where stood Hale and Aras. Ignoring the Legion cutter, Gurren edged close to Hale. ‘You can tell ’em to all go away, witch.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘You stubborn whorespawn, Gurren. You ain’t been listening. This is Denul he’s talking about here. If Ilgast Rend had made it to your wife before her last blessed breath, she’d still be alive. The cutter says he can mend the broken bones and even save her eye. The cutter can give her back her future, Gurren, so wipe that miserable scowl off your face and let ’em inside.’

  Gurren stepped back. Numb, he nodded at Aras. The man quickly slipped past, followed by the second Legion healer.

  Witch Hale said, ‘And listen to me. Your rotted lungs – might be Aras can—’

  ‘No. I’m going to my wife.’

  ‘And you’ll just up and leave Renarr all alone?’

  ‘She’s known it was coming. My girl’s got protection now. Legion protection. I’m going to my wife.’

  ‘Town needs a smith—’

  ‘I’m going to my wife.’

  Snarling something Gurren couldn’t make out, Witch Hale went back into the house.

  Gurren found he was wiping his hands over and over again, but all he managed was to smear them evenly with sweaty coal dust. With his mind he felt inside his body for the places of sickness. They sat like empty absences in his chest, things that felt nothing even as they sickened everything around them. He saw them as lumps of coal, and the blood he coughed up showed the black from those lumps. Those numb gifts were carrying him to Shellas. He loved them dearly.

  Renarr would grieve. That had been the worst part in all of this. Grieving and alone, their little girl. He looked over at all the soldiers, wondering why they had all come down just to deliver a pair of healers. He saw how they had ranged out, watchful – but not watching Gurren or the house; instead, they faced outwards, and something about them made him shiver.

  They would take care of their little girl, and might be Shellas would be happy with that, with them being Legion and all. She could rest easy and look kindly on him, and might be she’d step forward after watching him crawling towards her for so long, long enough to confirm that his love for her had never died – she’d step forward and lift him up, and reach into his chest, and pull out those black lumps of grief. He’d watch her throw them away, so that he could breathe again, without coughing, without feeling the horrible tightness.