Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (45 page)

‘I never knew,’ said Errastas as Sechul, with only one working arm, awkwardly helped him to stand, ‘that killing could be so much fun.’

Sechul shuddered. ‘Errastas, look at what we have done. Invited her here under false pretences, and then set upon her like wild beasts. We have awakened the wrath of the Jaghut. Nothing good will come of that.’

‘Night comes to the Jaghut, Setch. Their fury is as nothing now.’

‘Too easy your dismissal, Errastas. We have just murdered his wife.’

‘And Hood will weep – what of it? Now, let us go, before they draw close enough to hear us. Besides, it is not Hood who approaches, is it?’

‘No,’ Sechul Lath muttered, ‘only his brother.’

* * *

Haut paused on the trail, squinting upward.

Behind him, Korya sagged down in exhaustion. Circling the top of a tower did not make for much exercise. Three strides from edge to edge; such was her realm, the span of faith for her godly aspirations. It seemed paltry, small, and she had begun to suspect that the world ever delivered lessons in humility, even to gods and goddesses.

‘It is not far now,’ said Haut. ‘I should have selected the sword; this axe grows heavy. Bold my pride; feeble my aged muscles.’ He glanced back at her. ‘Have you given more thought to this scattered treasure?’

‘Was I to have given it more thought?’

‘I await your wisdom.’

She shook her head. ‘Of wisdom I have little, master. But I see it as a deliberate mockery of worth.’

‘Yes, but why?’

‘Maybe we are being told that only what awaits us at the end of this trail holds true worth.’

‘Possibly. The Azathanai are curious creatures. They are not acquisitive. In fact, there is one among them who bears the title of Protector, yet protects nothing. The Jheleck came to their villages and stole all they could carry, and he but smiled.’

‘Perhaps he protects what cannot be seen.’

‘And what might that be?’

She considered, taking her time as it gave her further respite. ‘There are many virtues that cannot be measured in a material manner.’

‘Indeed? Name one.’

‘Love.’

‘Torcs and rings of gold, brooches and diadems; expensive gifts, a solid home and a roof that does not leak. A child.’

‘From all those love can be stripped away, yet still they remain.’

‘Excellent. Go on.’

‘Trust.’

‘Guard my wealth and I will pay you in return.’

‘That is a transaction.’

‘One that purchases trust.’

‘Such material exchanges as you describe are meant to symbolize the virtues I mentioned. They are not the virtues in and of themselves.’

‘But is this not the meaning of all wealth, hostage?’

‘I think not. After all, greed is not a virtue.’

‘Greed is the language of power, the hoarding of symbols.’

She shook her head. ‘Virtues cannot be claimed; they are but shown.’

‘Shown. How are they shown?’

Korya scowled. ‘By the gifts you describe.’

Haut nodded. ‘Listen well. You are right to not conflate the symbol with the meaning; but you are wrong in thinking that to do so is uncommon.’

‘Then I would say, the Protector defends the distinction, and so to make his point, he must stand aside when thieves take away the material symbols of the virtues whose sanctity and purity he defends.’

Haut grunted. ‘A fine theory. I will consider—’

His abrupt stop made her look up. Haut was staring down at his feet. After a long moment he drew free his axe and then faced upslope once more.

‘Master?’

‘By what measure then, Azathanai wealth?’

‘Master? What is—’ Faint motion caught her eye, something glittering, and she looked down on the path. A thin, crooked stream was wending its way down through the twisted rings and cut gems. In the strange, colourless light it looked black as ink.

Haut set out, climbing once more with the axe readied in his hands.

Pushing herself upright and taking care to avoid the rivulet, Korya followed.

Another half-dozen strides upward and it became impossible to step around the draining liquid.
Is this blood I see?
She thought of gods and goddesses, the notions of sacrifice – so long ago abandoned by the Tiste – and this place at once seemed colder, crueller.

No more questions to ask Haut; this was not the time. She remained silent, but her mouth was dry and her heart beat fast in her chest.

The ascent ended just ahead in a broken tumble of stones that seemed to flatten, as if by weight alone they could force the trail level, but something was lying upon the verge – a corpse, sprawled and half
naked
, the limbs stretched as if the body had been dragged to the edge of the descent. From this contorted perch, blood ran down in thick ropes, drowning the last few scattered gems.

A Jaghut woman.

She could see the point of a long knife jutting from her chest, and her back was arched in a manner to suggest the handle protruding from between her shoulder blades.

‘Karish.’

The word, coming from Haut who now stood before the body, was half prayer, half plea. A moment later he wavered, as if about to fall – and she drew up close, thinking to take his weight though, of course, she could never manage that. Haut staggered ahead, stumbled past the body, lifting the axe.

‘
Karish!
’

Korya reached the corpse. She stared down at it – the first dead person she had ever seen. A proud-looking woman, her features even, perhaps beautiful by Jaghut standards, she seemed to be frowning at the formless sky. The tusks were white as goat’s milk. The mouth was slightly open, crusted with froth and blood. The eyes bore a strange look, as if in seeing everything they found nothing worthy of regard. Above all, it was their stillness that shook Korya.
This is death. Death is stillness. And stillness does not belong among the living
.

A pinnacle beyond the tumbled boulders marked the end of the ascent – a span of level rock five, perhaps six strides across. A godly realm, but upon it stood only Haut. He was studying the ground, as if seeking to read the past.

Not long past. She died only moments ago. The blood only now begins to slow
.

Now at last she found the need to speak. ‘Where could they have gone? We passed no one.’ When Haut made no answer, she walked to the edge and looked down. A seething storm swirled far below, argent yet sickly. Waves of nausea struck her and she backed away a step, almost toppling.

Haut’s hand met her back, solid as stone. ‘Unwise, hostage. To look upon Chaos is to yield to its invitation. For that, I am most sorely tempted. It is said,’ he went on, the axe-head crunching on the bedrock as he let the weapon down, ‘that Mother Dark did not hesitate. She leapt into that wild realm. And returned, but not the same woman she had been before. Now, she would turn her back upon Chaos, a champion of all that it is not.’

She wondered at his words, their rambling nature; their looseness in this moment.

‘I wager it unwise,’ Haut went on, ‘to make of oneself a symbol, and if she be coveted, why is it a surprise to any?’

‘Master. Who was she? The Jaghut woman? Who could have done this?’

‘My brother’s wife,’ Haut replied. ‘Karish. The greatest scholar among the Jaghut. She was lured here and then murdered.’

‘By the Azathanai?’

‘By one or more among them, yes.’

‘Will there now be war, master? Between the Jaghut and the Azathanai?’

He turned at that, studied her for a moment, only to look away again. ‘A war?’ He voiced that word as if he had never heard it before, and only now comprehended its meaning.

‘Master. When we began this journey, you said that we were invited. Was it to see this? If so, why?’

‘She named it the Spar of Andii – your Mother Dark. And made of it a fist of Darkness. Hostage, what awaits us now is the challenge of making sense of these symbols. For this, your cleverness surpasses mine. It was ever my belief that you needed us. Now it seems that it is we who need you.’ His face twisted and seemed to crumple before her. ‘Korya Delath, will you help us?’

NINE

HARAL, THE LEADER
of the caravan guards who would not be called ‘sir’, had drawn up his horse to await them. Just beyond, the trail forked, with a cobbled track beginning there. To the left it climbed a hundred or more strides to the fortified walls of the Tulla Hold, an edifice carved into the cliffside. A dozen or more windows made rough holes in the rock facing above the heaped boulders that formed the defences. Along the uneven wall rose squat towers, four in all, each one twice as broad at the base as at the summit, with mounted arbalests commanding the platforms. To Orfantal’s eyes Tulla Hold rose before him like a fortress of myth, and he imagined high-ceilinged hallways shrouded in shadows, through which grieving lords and haunted ladies walked, and the rooms that had once held children now had their doorways sealed and the cradles – rank with mould and thick with dust – rocked only to faint draughts in the deep of night.

He saw rusting weapons on hooks lining the walls, and tapestries sagging beneath their pins. The images were faded with age, but all bore the scenes of war, the death of heroes and murderers in flight. In every room such tapestries brooded like faint echoes of battle, filling the walls with corpses of sewn thread, studded with arrows or bearing lurid wounds.

Gripp riding at his side, Orfantal reined in opposite Haral.

The captain seemed to be eyeing Orfantal’s nag with some regret. ‘We will camp here,’ he said after a moment. ‘The Lady is not in residence, so we need not pay our respects, which is just as well, since that horse would never manage the climb.’

Orfantal set a hand against his horse’s neck as if he could protect the beast from Haral’s cruel words. Feeling the heat of the animal under his palm, he found it impossible to imagine life surrendering in this beast. He saw it as a loyal servant and knew that its heart would not falter in its strong beat. There was glory in final journeys and he was certain that his mount would carry him all the way to Kharkanas.

Gripp was squinting up at the distant citadel. ‘Gate’s opening, Haral. Tithe, do you think?’

Scowling, Haral said nothing. Dismounting, he led his horse to the stone-lined well off to one side of the fork. Beyond it stretched levelled ground studded with iron tent pegs, and a half-dozen fire-pits lined with rocks.

Orfantal looked ahead, to where the cobbled track led deeper into the hills. If there were bandits, they would be hiding among those bleached crags crowding the road. Perhaps even now steady eyes were fixed upon them. Come the morrow there might be an ambush. Peace suddenly shattered: shouts and weapons clanging, figures toppling from saddles and bodies thumping heavily in the dust. His heart beat fast in excitement – the world was so huge! They might kidnap him, demanding a ransom, and he might find himself trussed up and left in some hovel, but he would twist free of the bonds and dig his way out, slipping into the maze of rock and crevasse, there to live wild as a beast.

Years would pass, and then word would come from these hills of a new bandit chief, clever and rich, a wayfarer who stole young women and made them all his most loyal warriors; and theirs was a loyalty beyond challenge, for each woman loved their chief as would a wife a husband.

He would conquer Tulla Hold, sweep it clean of ghosts and broken hearts. He would burn all the tapestries. There would be many children, an army of them. All would be well, with tables groaning beneath roasted meats, until at last all the noble houses marched to lay siege to the fortress. They would come in their thousands and when the walls were surmounted, he would fight to the last on the battlements, defending his children – but someone had yielded the gate, with gold in hand, and the enemy was suddenly in the courtyard. Assailed on all sides, he would be driven down to his knees by a spear flung from behind, and twisting round to see his slayer, his betrayer, he would defy the gods and rise once more—

‘Off your horse now for pity’s sake,’ said Gripp.