Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Keruli. The transformation lies at the heart of this tale. Among the Dog-Runners, the name of Keruli is understood to be living, of the present, as it were. But in passing, in turning about and striding into the past, Keruli must become K’rul.’

  ‘Keruli died and so became K’rul? Then the Azathanai can die after all.’

  ‘No. Rather, yes. This is difficult enough without your questions! I’d rather you threw some more wood on the fire.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Yes, I am aware that it is not burning. But fire marks the passage of time in that it demonstrably offers us the transition of one thing into another. It is like the music that accompanies a bard’s voice. Without the damned flames between us it seems the tale must stall, like a word half uttered, a breath half drawn.’

  ‘You were telling me about an Azathanai named K’rul.’

  ‘Not even his fellow Azathanai understand what he did, or even why. Perhaps he but tests his own immortality. Or perhaps ennui drove him to it. Here we skirt the chasm of intentions. He gives no answer to entreaty.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He bled, and from the wounds he opened upon himself, in the blood itself, he gave birth to mysterious power. Sorcery. Magic in many currents and flavours. They are young still, vague in aspect, only barely sensed. Those who do sense them might choose to flee, or venture closer. In exploration, these currents find definition.’

  ‘It is said,’ Korya ventured, ‘that the Jaghut possess their own sorcery. As do the Dog-Runners, and the Thel Akai, and even the Forulkan.’

  ‘And the Tiste?’ Haut asked.

  She shrugged. ‘So Varandas said, but I have never seen anything of that.’

  ‘You were very young when you left Kurald Galain.’

  ‘I know. I admit, master, that I am sceptical of Tiste magic.’

  ‘And what of Mother Dark?’

  ‘I don’t know, master. Anything can be worshipped and made into a god, or goddess. It just takes collective fear – the desperate kind, the helpless kind, the kind that comes from having no answers to anything.’

  ‘Then is the absence of belief the same as ignorance?’

  ‘As much as the presence of belief can be ignorant.’

  Haut grunted, and then nodded. ‘The blood leaks from him, in thin trickles, in heavy drops, and so his power passes out into the world and in leaving him becomes a thing left behind, and so Keruli became known as K’rul.’

  ‘The Dog-Runners expected him to die.’

  ‘They did. Who does not die when bleeding without surcease?’

  ‘But he lives on.’

  ‘He does, and now at last, I suspect, the other Azathanai begin to comprehend consequences of K’rul’s gift, and are alarmed.’

  ‘Because K’rul offers anyone a share in the power they once held only for themselves.’

  ‘Very good. What value being a god when each and every one of us can become one?’

  She scowled. ‘What value being a god when you bully all those with less power than you? Where is the satisfaction in that? If it exists at all, it must be momentary, and pathetic and venal. Might as well pull the legs off that spider on the wall behind you – it’s hardly worthy of a strut, is it?’

  ‘Hostage, are not all gods selfish gods? They make their believers cower, if believers they choose to have; and if not, then in the hoarding of their power they become remote and cruel beyond measure. What god offers gifts, and does so freely, without expectation, without an insistence upon forms and proscriptions?’

  ‘That is K’rul’s precedent?’ Korya asked, and the very notion made her breathless and filled with wonder.

  ‘Long ago,’ Haut said, groaning as he climbed to his feet, ‘there were Jaghut markets, back when we had need of such things. Imagine the consternation in such a market, should one hawker arrive bearing countless treasures, which he then gave away, asking for nothing in return. Why, civilization could not survive such a thing, could it?’

  ‘Master, is K’rul the Lord of Hate?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is your tale at an end?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘But you ended nowhere!’

  ‘I did warn you, hostage. Now pack up, as we must be off. The day promises an air cleansed of all things behind us, and a bold vista to entice us forward.’

  And now they walked, down the tiers of the valley’s side, and in the distance there was a tower, rising above all others. It was white, luminescent as pearl, and it drew her gaze again and again.

  * * *

  Arathan followed Draconus out on to an expanse that in any other city would have been called a square. A high tower rose amidst a cluster of lesser kin directly opposite. Where the others were squat and angular and made of grey granite, the tower before them was faced in what looked like white marble, round-walled, smooth and graceful. The buildings gathered at its foot seemed as crass as hovels.

  Draconus reined in before one such lesser tower, and dismounted. He turned to Arathan. ‘Hobble your horses. We have arrived.’

  Arathan tilted his head and let his eyes travel the height of the white edifice. ‘I do not understand,’ he said, ‘why such a beautiful thing should be called the Tower of Hate.’

  Pausing for a moment beside Calaras, Draconus frowned at his son. Then he gestured to the low doorway of the squat tower. ‘In here,’ he said. The aperture was narrow and low enough to force him to duck when he stepped within.

  After hobbling Besra and Hellar, Arathan followed.

  The chamber was dark and vaguely rank, its low ceiling bearing smoke-blackened rafters and beams stained with what looked like bird guano. A high-backed chair was positioned in a corner close to three vertical slits in the wall that passed for windows. The light spilling through ran like bars across a small, high desk, on which sat a stack of vellum as tall as the wine goblet that stood beside it. Roughly made feather quills were scattered about on what remained of the desk’s flat top, with more littering the stone floor underneath the wooden legs. In the corner to the left of the chair, a trap door in the floor had been lifted back, and from somewhere below pale light drifted upward like dust.

  Draconus drew off his leather gloves and tucked them behind his sword belt. He looked around, and then said, ‘Wait here. I will go and find us some chairs.’

  ‘Do we seek an audience, Father? Are we in the gatekeeper’s tower?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, and made his way outside.

  There was a scuffing sound from the trap and a moment later a figure climbed into view. Arathan had never before seen a Jaghut, as he knew this creature to be. Tall, gaunt, with skin the hue of olives, bearing creases and seams similar to those on lizard hide. The tusks curled as they swept up from the lower jaw to either side of a wide, slit mouth. Heavy brow ridges hid the eyes. The Jaghut was wearing a frayed robe of wool, unevenly dyed a watery purple. In one hand he held an ink bottle. His fingers were stained black.

  Ignoring Arathan, the Jaghut walked to the desk and set the ink bottle down, and then, as if exhausted by the chore, he sat in the cushioned chair and leaned back to rest his head.

  A flicker of dull gold marked his eyes as he studied the desktop. When he spoke, his voice was deep but rough. ‘Some write in wine. But others write in blood. As for me, why, I prefer ink. Less painful that way. I invite no excesses but moderation, but some would view even moderation to be a vice. What think you?’

  Arathan cleared his throat. ‘We seek audience with the Lord of Hate.’

  The Jaghut snorted. ‘That fool? He bleeds ink like a drunk pissing in the alley. His very meat is sodden with the bile of his dubious wit. He chews arguments like broken glass, and he bathes all too infrequently. What business would you have with him? None of any worth, I imagine. They come seeking a sage, and what do they find? Look at that heap of writing there, on the desk. He writes a suicide note, and it is interminable. His audience blinks, too filled with self-importance to choke out a laugh. Death,
he tells them, is the gift of silence. One day we will all roll into that crypt, where the painted walls hide in darkness and even the dust will not stir. Tell me, do you long for peace?’

  ‘My father seeks out some chairs,’ Arathan said. ‘He will be back shortly.’

  ‘You bear the trappings of a Tiste. No one doubts the power of the Suzerain of Night, yet many doubt his will, but it is not his will that so endangers everyone. It is his temper. Tell them that, Tiste-child, before it is too late.’

  Arathan shook his head. ‘I will not return to my people,’ he said. ‘I mean to stay here.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘In the Tower of Hate,’ he answered.

  ‘And where might that tower be?’

  ‘The tall one, of white marble, where dwells the Lord of Hate.’

  ‘Have you visited that tower yet, Tiste-child? No? A secret awaits you, then. A secret most delicious. But I see your impatience. If one must build an edifice of hate, what manner of stone should be selected in its construction?’

  ‘Something pure?’

  ‘Very good. And to build a tower for all to see, it should shine bright, yes?’

  Arathan nodded.

  ‘Thus. White marble, or, in the case of the tower you mentioned, opal. Of course, no Jaghut could build such a thing. We’ve not the talent to squeeze opal from rubble and dust. No, for such a miracle, one needs an Azathanai mason. One with an appropriate sense of humour. Why, you ask? Well, because humour is necessary, once the secret is made known. So tell me, how many floors should this tower have? Name for me the levels of Hate.’

  ‘I cannot, sir,’ said Arathan. ‘Is hatred not a thing that blinds?’

  ‘Hmm. What make you of a suicide note that never ends?’

  ‘A joke,’ he replied.

  ‘Ah, and do you appreciate it?’

  Arathan shrugged, wondering where his father had gone to. ‘I appreciate the irony, I suppose.’

  ‘Just that? Well, you’re young still. Hate will blind, yes. There are no levels to it at all. You spoke of purity, and now we have discussed the matter of singularity. What of windows? What manner of door should be cut into this pure, singular thing?’

  ‘Windows are not needed, because all that lies outside hate matters not to the one within.’

  ‘And the door?’

  Arathan studied the Jaghut for a moment, and then he sighed. ‘The tower is solid stone, isn’t it? But that’s not right. There must be a way in.’

  ‘But no way out.’

  ‘Until you bring it down in … in conflagration. But if it is solid then none can live within it.’

  ‘None do. Not what any sane person would calling living, anyway.’

  Draconus appeared in the doorway. ‘You’ve gone and burned all the furnishings in every home nearby,’ he said, striding into the chamber.

  ‘The winters are cold, Suzerain. We were just discussing Gothos’s Folly, your son and I. See the trunk beside the doorway? In there you will find wine of passing quality. And Thel Akai ale, if you would invite insensibility.’

  ‘I would speak with Hood,’ said Draconus, walking over to the trunk. The lid creaked as he lifted it. He peered within for a moment and then withdrew a clay jug.

  ‘Excellent choice, Suzerain,’ said the Jaghut.

  ‘It should be, as it was my gift to you, the last time we met.’

  ‘Saved for your return. The Tiste have some worth in the world after all, given their talents in the making of wine.’

  Draconus withdrew a pair of alabaster goblets and studied them. ‘Caladan Brood has a subtle hand, does he not?’

  ‘He does, when he so chooses. It is curious. Upon the heels of my proclamation, and in the midst of the dissolution that followed, I am showered with gifts. How can one fathom the minds of the Azathanai?’

  ‘Does Hood remain below?’ Draconus asked as he poured wine into the two goblets.

  ‘I cannot get rid of him, it’s true.’

  His father offered Arathan one of the goblets. Startled, he accepted. Draconus then went to the desk, picked up the goblet there and sniffed at the wine. He flung the contents against the wall and refilled the goblet from the clay jug, then handed it across to the Jaghut.

  ‘Your son wishes to remain in the keeping of the Lord of Hate.’

  Draconus nodded. ‘He would make of himself a gift to you.’

  ‘As what, a keepsake? An ornament? What function could he possibly serve?’

  ‘He is trained in letters well enough,’ Draconus mused, sipping at the wine. ‘How many volumes have you compiled thus far, Gothos?’

  ‘An even dozen stacks to match the one on the desk. Written in an execrable hand, every word, every line.’

  Draconus frowned across at their host. ‘Not in Old Jaghut, I trust!’

  ‘Of course not! That would be … ridiculous. A language for the compilers of lists, a language for tax collectors with close-set eyes and sloping foreheads, a language for the unimaginative and the petty-minded, a language for the unintelligent and the obstinate – and how often do those two traits go hand in hand? Old Jaghut? Why, I would have killed myself after the first three words!’ He paused and then grunted. ‘If only I had. I confess, Suzerain, I have indeed written in Old Jaghut.’

  ‘Easily taught, that written script.’

  ‘And you charge me to subject your only son to such an ordeal? To what end?’

  ‘That he might transcribe your writings into a more suitable language.’

  ‘Tiste?’

  Draconus nodded.

  ‘He will go blind. His hand will wither and fall off to lie on the floor like a dead bird. He will need more than chains to keep him here. Even the Lord of Hate has limits, Suzerain.’

  ‘Until such time as he awakens unto himself. This seems as safe a place as any, Gothos, and I trust you to be an even-handed master.’

  ‘I am to be the vault to your treasure? Dear me, Draconus, but I see hard weather ahead.’

  ‘The thought was his, not mine,’ Draconus said, and turned to Arathan. ‘If you still mean to stay.’

  ‘I will, Father.’

  ‘Why?’ barked Gothos. ‘Speak, Tiste-child!’

  ‘Because, sir, an unending suicide note cannot but be a proclamation on the worth of living.’

  ‘Is it, now? I will argue against you, Tiste-child. Night upon night, page upon page, I will attack your belief, your faith, your certainty. I will assail you without pause for breath, and seek to crush you under the heel of my hard-won wisdom. What have you that dares to claim the strength to withstand me?’

  ‘Lord,’ said Arathan, ‘I have youth.’

  Gothos slowly leaned forward, his eyes glittering. ‘You will lose it.’

  ‘Eventually, yes.’

  The Lord of Hate slowly leaned back. ‘Draconus, your son does you proud.’

  ‘He does,’ his father whispered.

  Gothos then held up a large, ornate key. ‘You will need this, Suzerain.’

  Nodding, Draconus set down his empty goblet and took up the key. Then he went below.

  The Lord of Hate continued eyeing Arathan. ‘Never doubt your father’s courage.’

  ‘I never have, sir.’

  ‘How has he named you?’

  ‘Arathan.’

  Gothos grunted. ‘And do you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Walk on water, for such is the Azathanai meaning of your name.’

  ‘No sir. Even upon ice, I broke through, and came near to drowning.’

  ‘Do you now fear it?’

  ‘Fear what, sir?’

  ‘Water? Ice?’

  Arathan shook his head.

  ‘Your father means to free Hood. What do you imagine he desires from such a perilous act?’

  ‘I would think, sir, some form of redemption.’

  ‘Then it was indeed by Errastas’s hand, the slaying of Karish and now others. Alas, your father does not understand the Jaghut. He imagines that Hood will set
out to hunt down the wayward Azathanai. He would see the legendary rage of my people unleashed upon this upstart with blood on his hands. But that shall not come to pass.’

  ‘Then what will Hood do?’

  ‘He grieves for the silence she now gives him, Arathan. I fear, in truth, that he will announce a war upon that silence. All to hear her speak again, one more time, one last time. He will, if he is able, shatter the peace of death itself.’

  ‘How is that even possible?’

  Gothos shook his head. ‘Since I am the one who flees death tirelessly, I am not the one to ask.’ The Lord of Hate waved one ink-stained hand. ‘We wage war with our follies, Hood and me, and so are repelled in opposite directions. I chase the dawn and he would chase the dusk. I do not begrudge his resolve, and can only hope that my fellow Jaghut choose to ignore his summons.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they? It is impossible. Madness.’

  ‘Attractive qualities indeed. Impossible and mad, yes, but most worrying of all, it is audacious.’

  ‘Then in truth, you fear they will answer him.’

  Gothos shrugged. ‘Even a few could cause trouble. Now, more wine, please. I believe the bottle bred another in the trunk, somewhere. Do go and look, will you?’

  Instead, Arathan glanced at the trap.

  Sighing, Gothos said, ‘It bodes ill that you already tire of my company. Go on, then, and appease your curiosity.’

  Arathan approached the trap and looked down. The steps were made of wood, warped and worn with age. They were steep. The light coming from below was pale. He made his way down.

  After the twelfth step, he reached the earthen floor. It was uneven, with roots snaking across it like a tangled web. He could see no walls. The light was pervasive but without any obvious source. He saw his father standing at the edge of a pool fifteen paces ahead. In the centre of the pool was an island, only a few paces across, where sat a Jaghut. He seemed to have torn away his clothes, and raked claws through his own flesh. Heavy manacles bound his wrists, the chains plunging into the island’s rocky surface. Arathan made his way to stand beside his father.

  Draconus was speaking. ‘… I mean to purge the gift, and give it to the Night. I know that this offers no absolution.’ He paused, and then said, ‘K’rul is not alone in seeking justice for the murder, Hood. I can think of no Azathanai who is not outraged by Errastas’s crime.’