Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (62 page)

‘Unless it sank in the mud.’

‘And what monuments do
you
build on mud, brother?’

The water was cool and clear. Beyond the ledge, the pool seemed to drop away to unknown depths, but that was due to the failing light, Rint suspected. ‘I don’t trust magic,’ he said. ‘And this village reeks of it.’

Raskan grunted at that. ‘I feel the same as you, Rint. It makes the skin crawl. If this is what waits this side of Bareth Solitude, well, it’s little wonder we rarely visit these lands. Or the people who choose to live like this.’

Feren straightened and turned round. ‘Someone comes,’ she said.

Rint thought about spitting into the water and decided against it. He imagined Raskan was regretting his words, since it was likely that they had been heard by the Azathanai who now approached. Still crouching, he twisted to regard the newcomer. A woman of middle years, overweight but not grossly so; still, it seemed she sagged from every appendage, and the roll of fat overwhelming her belt had pushed away the front of her hide shirt and so hung exposed, the skin white as snow and creased with stretch marks. She had, Rint decided, once been much fatter.

The woman halted a few paces away, scowling. ‘You do not know me,’ she said in the Tiste language, but with a thick, muted accent.

Feren cleared her throat. ‘Forgive us, Azathanai. We do not.’

‘The Dog-Runners know me. I am found among them, on winter nights. They see me in the fires they light. I am worshipped and I see the worship in their eyes, the reflected flames of their eyes.’

‘Then,’ said Rint, ‘you have travelled a long way to come here.’

The scowl faded and the woman shrugged. ‘I would choose a shape of beauty. Instead, they feed me until I can barely move.’ With these words she reached to her belly, pushed her hand inside, and Rint realized, in horror, that what he had taken to be stretch marks were in fact scars – now wounds, one of them splitting open as she pushed her hand deeper. When she withdrew it, slimed with blood and ichor, she held in her hand a small clay figurine, bulbous in form. She tossed it at the feet of Feren, who involuntarily stepped back.

Rint stared as the wound closed, and the blood ran from the skin watery as rain, until once more the belly was alabaster white.

Feren was looking down at the clay figurine and after a moment she bent down and picked it up.

Glancing over at what his sister held, Rint saw that it was female, with a nub of a head – barely shaped – above huge breasts and a round belly. The legs were pressed together below an exaggerated vulva.

‘They feed the fire,’ the woman said. ‘And I grow fat.’

Raskan was mute and pale; he stood like a man who wanted to flee. The woman walked over to him. ‘Do I frighten you? Do you not want to feel my weight upon you? The wetness of my gift?’

Rint saw that Raskan was trembling.

‘I could make you kneel to me,’ continued the woman. ‘Such is my power. You think you understand beauty. You dream of women thin as children, and see nothing perverse in that. But when one such as I comes to stand before you, I sense your hunger for worship, even as that hunger shames you. Lie upon the ground, Tiste, and let me teach you all about power—’

‘Enough!’

The command rang in the air. Rint was spun round by it. Draconus had appeared, Arathan a step behind him.

The Azathanai woman edged back, her scowl returning, and with it a spasm of venom that just as quickly vanished. ‘I was but amusing myself, Draconus. No harm.’

‘Begone, Olar Ethil. Skulk your way back to the Dog-Runners. These people are under my protection.’

She snorted. ‘They need it.
Tiste
.’

That word dripped with contempt, and dropping the figurine Feren reached for her sword, but Rint stepped close and stayed her hand.

Raskan staggered away, his hands covering his face. He almost collided with Draconus who moved aside just in time, and then fled onward. Now Rint could see the Lord’s fury.

The woman named Olar Ethil studied Draconus, unperturbed. ‘I could take them all,’ she said. ‘Even the woman. And you would not be able to stop me.’

‘When last we crossed paths, Olar Ethil, that might have been true. I invite you to quest deeper.’

‘Oh, no need, Draconus. Night rides your breath. I see where you have gone and what you have done and you are a fool. All for love, was it? Or am I being too … romantic. More like
ambition
, which, since we are not fools, you could not appease among us.’ She made a faint gesture with her blood-stained hand.

The clay figurine exploded with a sharp
crack
.

Feren cursed, reaching a hand up to her cheek and drawing it back smeared in blood. ‘You fat hag!’

Olar Ethil laughed. ‘Touched by the goddess! You carry a child, woman, yes? A girl … and oh, the hue of her blood is
most
unusual!’

Draconus stepped closer and Olar Ethil faced him again. ‘You wanted a grandson?’ she asked. ‘How disappointing for you. Come no closer, Draconus! You have my attention now. Gaze into the flames at night for too long, and I will steal your soul – you all have felt it.
Your
words die and the fire fills your mind. Draconus, I will look out from the flames. I will watch you, and listen, and discover your secrets. Although, granted, I already know most of them. Shall I utter your truths, O Suzerain of Night?’

Draconus halted his advance. ‘If you come to the flames of our campfires, Olar Ethil, even once, we shall do battle. Until but one of us remains alive.’

The woman’s eyes widened with shock. ‘Well now,’ she murmured, ‘all that armour … for naught. Death, Draconus? Be careful – the word alone is an unholy summons these days.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean an Azathanai has taken a life. Spilled the blood of a very powerful … innocent. Around this deed, chaos now dances like carrion flies – why do you think I returned?’

‘An Azathanai has committed murder?’ The belligerence was gone from Draconus now, and when he stepped closer to Olar Ethil, Rint understood – as well as she evidently did – that no threat was intended.

Her expression was now grave. ‘Not a Tiste, Draconus, which absolves you of vengeance. Nor a Dog-Runner, or so I have since discovered, which absolves me of the same. Nor a Thel Akai – although that would have been interesting. Neither Jheck nor Jheleck.
Jaghut
, beloved. Karish, mate to Hood, is dead. Slain.’

The sudden anguish in the Lord’s face was terrible to behold. Rint edged back, pulling Feren with him. He saw the boy watching from a dozen or so paces away, but not watching his father; nor was he watching Olar Ethil. Instead, Arathan’s eyes were fixed on Feren.

Abyss take us all. He’s made a child with her. A girl
.

Feren had half turned, only to be snared by Arathan’s eyes.

Rint heard her whisper, ‘I’m sorry.’

In a harsh voice Draconus spoke. ‘Olar Ethil, come to my fires.’

The woman nodded, strangely formal. ‘I would never have done so,’ she said, ‘if not invited, Suzerain. Forgive me. I have been too long among the Dog-Runners, who prove so easy to bait that I cannot help myself.’ She cocked her head. ‘It seems that I am a cruel goddess.’

‘Be more mindful, then,’ Draconus replied, but there was no bite in his words; rather, a kind of tenderness. ‘They are vulnerable to deep hurts, Olar Ethil.’

She sighed regretfully. ‘I know. I grow careless in my power. They feed me with such desperation, such yearning! The Bonecasters voice prayers in my name, like biting ants beneath the furs. It drives me mad.’

Draconus settled a hand upon her shoulder, but said nothing.

She sank against him, resting her head against his chest.

Rint was dumbfounded.
Draconus … who are you?

‘And,’ Olar Ethil continued, her voice muffled, ‘they make me fat.’

With an amused snort Draconus stepped away. ‘Do not blame them for your appetites, woman.’

‘What will you do?’ she asked him.

‘Where is Hood?’

‘I have heard that his grief has driven him mad. Lest he proclaim war upon the Azathanai, he was subdued by kin and is now chained in a cell in the Tower of Hate.’

‘The Jaghut have gathered? To what end?’

‘None can say, Draconus. The last time they gathered they argued themselves into the abandonment of their realm.’

Draconus seemed distracted for a moment, and then he shook his head. ‘I will speak to the Lord of Hate. Tell me, do we know the slayer among the Azathanai?’

‘Not yet, Suzerain. Some are missing, or in hiding.’

Draconus grunted. ‘Nothing new in that.’

‘No.’

As they were speaking, Feren had been pulling at Rint’s grip on her arm. Finally her efforts drew his attention. But she was not interested in leaving his side. Instead, as he released her, she sagged to the ground, leaning hard against his legs. He felt the shudder of her silent weeping.

Rint felt sick inside. He wished they had never agreed to accompany the Consort. He wished that Ville and Galak would finally catch up with them, so they could all leave – break this contract and to the Abyss with the consequences. He wanted no more of this.

Draconus said, ‘Rint, help your sister tend to her wound, and then make camp upon the hill.’

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘Arathan.’

‘Sir?’

‘Find Raskan. Help him.’

‘Help?’ The boy’s eyes were wide with sudden fear.

Draconus frowned. ‘I meet your eyes. You are the son of Draconus. Go to him.’

* * *

Arathan found Sergeant Raskan crumpled against a wall, his face ravaged by grief. As he drew nearer, the man looked up, wiped roughly at his eyes and made to stand, only to sag once more on the wall. He looked away as if shamed.

‘Rint and Feren are going to where we will make camp,’ said Arathan. ‘They have all the horses.’

‘Go away, boy.’

‘I cannot.’

‘I said go away!’

Arathan was silent for a long moment, and then he said, ‘I wish that I could, sergeant. This should be a time for you to be alone. I do not know what she did, but I can see that it was cruel.’

‘Keep your distance,’ Raskan said in a low rasp, ‘lest I harm you.’

‘Sergeant, my father has met my eyes. I am his son. I am not here to ask you. I am here to command you. I will lead you to the camp. It is my father’s wish.’

Raskan looked up, eyes hooded in the gloom, his cheeks streaked and his beard glittering. ‘Your father,’ he hissed, making the words a curse. ‘This was Ivis’s task, not mine! Maybe he could have weathered it, but I cannot!’

‘What did she take from you?’

His laugh was harsh and bitter, but he straightened from the wall. ‘I am not the fool he thinks I am. She knows him from long ago. I begin to
see
.’

‘What do you mean? What do you see? Sergeant Raskan, tell me – what do you see?’

‘Azathanai blood is what I see. It needs chaining and that’s what he’s done. Chained it down. By his will alone you are held back, made normal to our eyes. You fool – not once did she look at you!’

Arathan stared at the man, trying to comprehend. And then he backed away a step. ‘Why should she? Raskan! Why should she look at me at all?’

But the man levered himself from the wall and staggered in the direction of the hill beyond the village. After a moment, Arathan stumbled after him. He heard the sergeant muttering under his breath.

‘How can it be a secret when even I did not know it? No, I have dreamed no sordid dreams, longed for nothing immoral. There is no cause for disgust. I could kneel above the water – I could look down on my face. And see nothing evil. She lied. I deserve no shame!’

The man was speaking nonsense. Arathan wondered if his mind had been broken by the witch’s magic. His own thoughts felt unhinged.
My father knew her long ago. I don’t know what that means – it means nothing. It seems all of the Azathanai know my father. Grizzin Farl. Old Man. And now this witch. Each one we meet knows him. They call him the Suzerain of Night. They fear him
.

I am his son. Bastard no longer
.

Why did he wait? Why did he bring me out here to say that?

They clambered over the last of the settlement’s walls. Ahead the track resumed, climbing to a crossroads flanked on one side by a humped, rounded hill on which stood half a dozen trees, forming a half-ring. In the cup they formed stood Rint and Feren. Neither Draconus nor Olar Ethil could be seen – he wondered where they had gone. Were they still at the pool?

The horses were tied to the trees and stood with heads lowered beneath gnarled boughs that seemed tangled with black lichen.

Raskan ascended the hillside as if it were the face of a hated enemy, tearing at the grasses, pulling aside rocks and leaving them to tumble and roll so that Arathan had to jump from their path. The manic fury of the man was frightening.

Halfway up Raskan halted and wheeled to glare down at him. ‘Some truths should never be revealed! Look at me!’