Forge of Darkness (85 page)

‘Run to the back!’ he shouted. ‘Get on the horse! Go!’

‘Cryl!’

More attackers were pushing into the hallway.

From somewhere off to his right, in another room, a window was being broken through. ‘Go!’ he screamed, flinging himself at the three attackers.

He was a Durav. The blood was on fire in his veins. He split the face of one man, sliced through the kneecap of another. A blade stabbed deep into his right thigh. He staggered back, pulling himself free of the weapon. Strength poured out of that leg. Cursing, he stumbled. More were coming in, eager to reach him. He blocked a thrust, felt his blade slice up the length of someone’s arm. And then something slammed into the side of his head and the world flashed white. As he fell forward, twin punches met his chest, pushed him back upright. He looked down to see two swords impaling him.

Another blade slashed, cut through half his neck.

He saw himself falling, in the hallway, almost within reach of the entrance threshold and the hacked body of Lord Jaen lying beyond, where boots and legs crowded past and drew close. Someone stepped
on
his hand, breaking fingers, but he only heard the sound – the feeling was a sense of wrongness, but there was no pain.

There was only a growing emptiness, black as the river. He waited for it to take him. He did not have to wait long.

* * *

They had caught the nobleborn woman in one of the back rooms, trying to climb out through a window, and dragged her into the main hall. And then the raping began.

When Narad was pushed forward – his sword unblooded and hanging from his hand – the woman who had run with him laughed and said, ‘This one to finish her! She’s a beauty, Waft, and she’s all yours!’

To the crass urgings of a dozen onlookers he was shoved to where she was lying on the hearthstone. Her clothes had been torn away. There was blood on the stone under her. Her lips were split from hard kisses and bites, and the once unmarred flesh of her body now bore deep bruises left by hands and fingers. He stared down into her glazed eyes.

She met them unblinking, and did not turn away.

The woman behind Narad was tugging down his trousers, taking him in hand to wake him up. Laughing, nuzzling the side of his neck, she pulled him down until he was on top of the nobleborn.

He felt himself slide into a place of blood and torn flesh.

Having delivered him, the woman stepped back, still laughing.

The nobleborn woman’s body was warm under his, and for all the bruises it was wondrously soft. He reached to hold her tight – to the howls of the others – and he whispered in her ear, asking for forgiveness.

Much later, they told him that she had breathed out her last breath while under him, and Narad had then realized that on that morning, upon the hearthstone, beauty had died in his arms.

* * *

Kadaspala woke with a start. He sat up. In his mind there remained the echoes of screaming – a terrible dream he could not even remember. He rubbed at his face, looked down in the pale morning light to see that his bruised thigh had swollen to twice the size of the other. Groaning, he sank back down.

But the faint echoes of the screams did not fade away. They did not fade at all.

No. Oh, no no no no
—

Paint and brush boxes left lying on the ground, Kadaspala somehow found himself on his feet, limping through blinding waves of agony, scrabbling up into the road. Trying to run, leg dragging, lurching under him, his breaths raw in his throat.

The sun climbed up through the trees. He hobbled on, wondering what madness had taken him. He could not have heard anything real. The distance was too far – he had been running on this road for ever. Leagues, tens of leagues – but no, the air was still cold from the night just past. Mist clung to the river’s surface like smoke.

He could barely walk, much less run.

When he came within sight of Andarist’s house, he halted. He could see the carriage, but the horses were gone. There was no movement – not a single Houseblade or servant. He limped forward.

Bodies on the ground. His father’s Houseblades and others. He saw faces he had known all his life, each one flat as the thinnest paint, the eyes half-lidded and blank. And everywhere, in lurid hues, gaping wounds. When he brought his hands to his face, he felt only numbness, as if even sensation was in retreat.

Fingers now stabbing the air, he staggered on.

The front door of the house was broken, torn from its hinges.

A sound was coming from Kadaspala, an inhuman sound, a sound of something sliding into a pit, an abyss, a fall into depths unending. The cry surrounded him, greeted the empty morning and its senseless light, and the blood on the earth made shadows beneath motionless bodies. He saw the open carriage door and more bodies beyond – more Houseblades, more strangers in filthy rags, eyes staring as dead eyes always did.

A shape on the steps of the house, a thing in a fine woollen cloak as blue as midnight. Grey hair clotted with black gore. The fingers on the end of Kadaspala’s hand danced in frenetic motion, jerking slashes of the invisible brush, and all the while the cry continued, like a soul in retreat, a soul plummeting for ever.

He stepped over his father’s body, and then over Cryl Durav’s. And saw Ephalla’s still, stained form.

He came to stand before the hearthstone.

This was not her. This … thing.
Not her. Never her. I don’t know who this is. It’s not
—

The face was all wrong. The bloodless cheeks, the swollen lips cracked and torn. He had never seen this woman before. She was staring at the ceiling. He felt himself pulled over her, stepping forward, shifting to intercept that empty gaze. He heard his own howl of protest. Still he leaned closer, watching the play of his own shadow sliding up over her face. He met her eyes.

The fingers of his hands curled into claws. The keening sound filled the chamber, ran wild, was trapped in corners, jolting free and careening against the ceiling. Its pitch was building, climbing ever higher. A sound tasting of blood, a sound smelling of horror. He staggered back and fell to his knees.

Enesdia
.

Don’t look at me like that. Don’t
—

His fingers reached up, as he stared at the forlorn figure sprawled on the hearthstone, and the invisible brushes stabbed.

Deep into his eyes.

Pain was a shock, rocking his head back, but the artist would not let go – the brushes dipped deeper, soaked in red paint. The cry was now shrieking in a chorus of voices, bursting from his mouth again and again. He felt his fingers grasp hold of his eyes, felt them clench tight, crushing everything.

And then he tore them away.

And darkness offered its perfect blessing, and he shuddered as if in ecstasy.

The babbling in his skull fell away, until a lone, quavering voice remained.
It is the one question that haunts every artist, the one question we can never answer
.

How does one paint love?

The brushes had done their work. The gods of the colours were all dead. Kadaspala sat slumped, with his eyes in his hands.

FIFTEEN

‘FIRST SON, TAKE
the sword in your hands.’

Kellaras stood near the door, his eyes on the magnificent weapon that Hust Henarald had unwrapped. It seemed to divide the table it rested on, as if moments from splitting the world in half. Lord Anomander, his face hooded as if in shadow, made no move to reach for the sword.

Kellaras could see his commander – the man he had always known – through the midnight pitch of his skin, and the long hair that had been black and was now silver, the hue of polished iron, yet capable of trapping every colour in its strands. The glow of the lanternlight was gold deepening to red, rippling like water as Anomander slowly leaned forward. The shadows within it were blue, on the very edge of inky black, and the way the hair fell reminded Kellaras of rain, or tears. He still struggled to comprehend this transformation.

Henarald spoke again, his features all sharp angles, a glitter in his eyes that might have been fear. ‘First Son, are you displeased? The blade is silent, its tongue severed at the root. If it howls for you, only you can hear it.’

‘I hear it,’ Anomander whispered.

Henarald nodded. ‘The weapon waits only for the blessing of Mother Dark.’

‘You will see nothing,’ said Silchas Ruin from where he leaned against the wall opposite Kellaras.

Henarald shook his head. ‘Then I shall hear that blessing, sir. Or taste it. Or touch it, like a rose melting on to the blade, and I will feel
warmth
in the turning away of light. My head shall fill with the scent of the holy.’

‘You shall emerge,’ Silchas said, ‘with the skin of midnight.’

The Hust Lord flinched.

Anomander straightened, and still he did not reach for the weapon. Instead, he faced Andarist. ‘Well, brother, what think you of this sword?’

Andarist was seated at one end of the table, like a man chained down against his will. His need to be gone from the city, to be on the road that would lead him to the woman he loved, was like sweat on his body, an emanation of impatience that seemed to crackle about him. His eyes flicked to the sword, and then up to his brother’s face. ‘I am a believer in names, Anomander. Power unfolds on the tongue. A word sinks claws into the mind and there would hold fast. Yet the Hust Lord tells us this blade is without a voice. Still, brother, you say that you hear its howl. I would know: by what name does this sword call itself?’

Anomander shook his head. ‘None. I hear only the promise of purity.’

‘In its will,’ said Henarald, ‘it demands the purest hand. To draw a weapon is to announce an end to uncertainty. It brooks no doubt in its wielder. It is, sirs, a sword for the First Son of Darkness. If he should deny it, in seeing weakness or flaw, or in sensing malign intent in its clear song, then I shall shatter it, and cast the shards across the world. No other shall claim this blade. Understand this of this sword: in the hands of a king, he is made tyrant. In the hands of a tyrant, he is made abomination. In the hands of the broken, he breaks all that he touches.’

The words hung in the small chamber, like echoes that wouldn’t die.

Hust Henarald stood tall before Anomander: an apparition of soot and weals, scars and mottled skin, and Kellaras was reminded of his first meeting with the Lord, when it seemed that iron hid beneath Henarald’s flesh and blood; that he was held in place by twisted bars still glowing from the forge. For all of that, Kellaras saw fear in the old smith’s eyes.

Silchas Ruin spoke into the heavy silence, ‘Lord Hust, what have you done?’

‘There is a secret place,’ Henarald said, ‘known to me. Known to certain Azathanai. There is a forge that is the first forge. Its heat is the first heat. Its fire is the first fire, born in the time before the Dog-Runners, in the time of the Eresal who have long since vanished into the grasslands of the south, where the jungles crawl down to unknown seas. There is no death in these flames. Often they have dimmed, but never have they died. It was in this forge that this weapon was made. One day, I knew – I know – I will be a child again.’ He turned to fix Kellaras with a hard stare. ‘Did I not say so, good sir?’

Kellaras nodded. ‘You did, Lord, but I admit, I did not understand then. I do not understand now.’

Henarald looked away, and to the captain’s eyes he seemed to deflate, as if struck to pain by Kellaras’s admission – his ignorance, his stupidity. One gnarled hand waved as if in dismissal. ‘The child knows simple things,’ he said in a near whisper. ‘Simple emotions, each one solid, each one raw. Each one honest in its bold certainty, no matter how cruel.’

It is the madness of iron. This weapon has been forged by a madman
.

‘Purity,’ Henarald continued, uttering the word in the tones of a lament. ‘We are not ready for it. Perhaps we never will be. Lord Anomander, be sure in your reply to this – is Mother Dark pure in this darkness she has spun about herself? Is the darkness pure? Do doubts die where they are sown? For ever starved of light, with no soil to take their roots? Tell me, will her blessing be as that of a child?’