Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (100 page)

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.’

Hood was silent, eyes downcast.

‘I would release you,’ Draconus said.

A low laugh came from the imprisoned Jaghut. ‘Ah, Draconus. You sought from Errastas a worthy symbol of your love for Mother Dark. To achieve that, he stole the love of another, and made from blackwood leaves the gift you sought. By this we are all made to bow before your need.’ Hood lifted his head, his eyes catching the strange silver reflection from the pool. ‘And now you stand before me, struggling to constrain your rage, a rage you feel on my behalf. But you see: I do not blame Errastas or his foolish companion, Sechul Lath. Nor do I look upon you with vehemence. Be a sword if you will, but do not expect me to wield it.’

‘My fury remains, Hood, and I will curse Errastas for his deed, and for my own role in it. I will forge a sword and make of it a prison—’

‘Then you are a fool, Draconus. I ask no redemption from you. I seek no compensation and am as unmoved by your sympathy as I am by your rage. Your gestures are your own.’

‘Quenched in Vitr—’

‘Cease this sordid description! What I will do, once I am freed, will unwind all of existence. Your fevered remonstrance is without relevance. Your gestures are reduced to petty exercises bolstering little more than your sense of self-importance, and in this I see you join the chorus of a million voices, but the song is sour and the refrain rings false. Give me the key, then, and begone.’

‘Hood, you cannot defeat death itself.’

‘You would know nothing of that, Draconus. I shall call for companions. My enemy shall be the injustice of mortality. I am certain that I will gather a few to my cause. The grieving, the lost, we shall be a solemn handful – but none will doubt our resolve.’

‘And where then will you find the shores of that unknown sea, Hood? What bridge can you hope to cross without releasing your soul to the very oblivion you seek to destroy?’

‘Heed well the lessons I will bring, Draconus, in my argument with death.’

‘I fear that we will not meet again,’ Arathan’s father said.

‘There are greater fears, Draconus. Make your regret modest and we’ll never have cause to curse one another, and in that may we find peace between us.’

‘You break my heart, Hood.’

‘Voice no such confessions, lest Gothos hear you and be incited to mockery. I never refused his arguments, though he might well choose
to
believe otherwise. Nothing of what he dismantled with his words was worth keeping. We are never eased for long by the accoutrements of self-delusion. Not that you will heed that.’

Draconus tossed the key across to Hood.

The Jaghut caught it. ‘Gothos chained me out of love,’ he said, eyeing the key he held. ‘And here you seek to free me in its name, but I am dead to such things now. One day, Draconus, I will call upon you, in Death’s name, and I wonder: how will you answer?’

‘When that moment arrives, Hood, we shall both learn what that answer will be.’

Hood nodded. He reached down and unlocked the first manacle.

Draconus turned to Arathan. ‘We are done here.’

But Arathan said to Hood, ‘Sir.’

The Jaghut paused, looked across. ‘What would you tell me, son of Draconus?’

‘Only of my faith,’ he replied.

Hood laughed. ‘Faith? Go on, then, I will hear it.’

‘I believe, sir, that you will prove Gothos wrong.’

The Jaghut grunted. ‘And is that a good thing?’

‘His argument, sir. It is wrong. You all failed to answer him and so ended your civilization. But that argument never ends. It cannot end, and that is what you will prove.’

‘An argument as endless as his confession? Hah! You are bold, son of Draconus. Do you also have faith that I will win my war?’

‘No, sir. I think you will fail. But I will bless you for trying.’

There was silence, and then Arathan saw tears track crooked paths down the Jaghut’s lined cheeks. Draconus set a hand upon his son’s shoulder and drew him back. The hand was heavy, but the grip promised no pain. Reaching the steps they paused and his father said, ‘Arathan, I regret not knowing you better.’

‘Father, from all sides you have been warned away from the path you are taking. Why do you persist?’

‘Because, son, I know no other.’

‘This is what Hood said of his own path,’ Arathan replied. ‘And Gothos. And Kilmandaros and Olar Ethil. It’s what all of you say, even when you don’t say it.’

‘Climb, Arathan. My time with you is almost done. I must return to Kharkanas. I have been gone too long as it is.’

Arathan ascended, his father following.

The Lord of Hate was still seated in his chair and seemed to be dozing, with an empty goblet in one hand.

Ignoring him, Draconus continued on. Outside, he collected up his horse’s reins and swung into the saddle. Looking down at Arathan he said, ‘Select an empty tower nearby to stable your mounts. There is a
Jaghut
living near. He is named Cynnigig. He is strange but harmless, and has great love for horses. He will ensure that your mounts are well fed and watered, and indeed exercised, but of the latter, do not lose your ties to Hellar.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Find somewhere near to sleep and make the best home you can. Do not unduly isolate yourself, and do not forget that a world exists beyond that of Gothos, and the Jaghut. When you feel ready, depart. You are a far greater gift than Tutor Sagander ever intended.’

‘Father, be careful in Kharkanas. They think they know you, but they don’t.’

Draconus studied him. ‘And you do?’

‘You are an Azathanai.’

His father collected up the reins and swung Calaras around. He rode out into the centre of the clearing, and as he did so the light faded around him, as if night itself had been summoned and now drew close to welcome its suzerain. In the moments before all light vanished, swallowing Draconus and his mount, Arathan saw a transformation come to Calaras. The stallion’s black hide deepened, his form blurring at the edges, his eyes flaring as if suddenly lit with lurid flames.

Then they vanished within impenetrable darkness. A moment later the day’s dying light swept in once more, revealing an empty clearing.

No embrace. No words of love to seal this farewell. He’s gone. My father is gone
.

He stood, alone, feeling lost. Feeling free.

Drawing out the clay figurine, he studied it. Olar Ethil’s gift, passing to him through the hands of his father. For all that it comforted him with its roundness and its weight, he wished that he did not have it. But it was all that remained, the only thing left that marked this vast journey, from the moment Sagander had made him halt and look back upon the gate of House Dracons, to this last, solitary instant, in the empty wake of his father’s departure.

Another gift soaked in blood
. Hearing a sound, he looked up.

From across the clearing, two figures had appeared. A Jaghut in armour, and beside him a young Tiste woman, thin and sharp-featured. He watched them approach.

When they reached him the Jaghut spoke, ‘Is he within?’

‘He is, sir. Sleeping in his chair.’

The Jaghut snorted, and then strode inside. A moment later his voice echoed loud and harsh: ‘If you’re not yet dead, Gothos, wake up!’

The woman met Arathan’s eyes, and then shrugged apologetically. A moment later she frowned. ‘What are you doing here? Who are you?’

The challenge in her eyes made him recoil a step. ‘I am a guest.’

‘A guest of the Lord of Hate?’

He nodded, putting the clay figurine back into the pouch at his belt.

‘Was that a doll?’

‘In a manner of speaking. A gift.’

‘It’s ugly. I had prettier dolls, once.’

He said nothing, made uncomfortable by the directness of her gaze.

‘Do you always do that?’

‘What?’

‘Chew your nails.’

Arathan dropped his hand and wiped his fingers on his thigh. ‘No,’ he said.

SEVENTEEN

‘DID HE EVER
speak of family?’

Feren said nothing to Ville’s question, and after a moment it was Rint who said, ‘Not that I recall. He talked only of House Dracons. It was the home he had made and if there was something before then, they were ashes he would not stir among us.’

‘Why should he?’ Galak demanded. ‘Sergeant or not, he was our commanding officer. I don’t see how our ignorance excuses anything. We may well be discharged from the Lord’s compass, but this does not absolve us from decency.’

‘He is not a Bordersword,’ Rint said in a growl. ‘I have no desire to ride back to House Dracons just to deliver a headless corpse. I have a newborn child and would see it.’

Feren held her gaze fixed on the way ahead, the rolling grasses and the dark wavy line that marked hills to the northeast. They had already left the trail they had made when venturing west. If Ville and Galak won this argument, they would have to cut across, straight east, to reach Abara Delack.

Their horses were tired, and the wrapped body of Gate Sergeant Raskan made pungent every wayward gust of wind.

‘We can build a cairn in the hills ahead,’ said Rint. ‘We can surrender his empty flesh to the realm of Mother Dark, and make all the necessary propitiations. There is nothing dishonourable in that. And if need be, we can send a message back to House Dracons, specifying the location of that cairn, should someone wish to come and collect the body.’

‘How could such a message not be deemed an insult?’ Ville said. ‘I
don’t
understand you, Rint. If we cannot hold to courtesy, what is left to us?’

‘I am past courtesy,’ Rint snapped. ‘If you and Galak feel it is so important, then deliver him. But I am returning home.’

‘Feren?’ Galak asked.

‘She took him,’ Feren replied. ‘The witch stole his soul. It matters not where you leave what’s left, or even that you make propitiation. Mother Dark will never receive his soul. Raskan is gone from us.’

‘The rituals serve the conscience of the living,’ Ville insisted. ‘Mine. Yours. His kin.’

She shrugged. ‘I see no salve in empty gestures, Ville.’

Galak grunted in frustration, and then said, ‘Would that we had never parted. You and me, Ville, we tell ourselves and each other that we ride in the company of two old friends. They well look the part.’

Everyone fell silent then, and the thumping of horse hoofs filled the cool afternoon air. Feren half closed her eyes, settling back into the rhythmic roll of her mount’s slow canter. In a short while they would slow their pace back down to a walk, and the distant hills would seem no closer and the homeland beyond would remain lost in longing and fearful uncertainty – as if distance alone could call its very existence into question.

There were ways of resenting the world that she had never known before, never sensed, and she would never have believed anyone’s claim to their veracity. She cursed the stretch of grassland. She cursed the pointless immensity of the sky overhead, its painless blue of daytime and its cruel indifference at night. The wind’s ceaseless moaning filled her head like the distant wailing of a thousand children, and every harsh breath bit at her eyes.