Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (38 page)

* * *

The shacks were torn down to provide firewood for the cookfires. Meals were prepared while monks went in twos and threes into the water, to bathe away the day’s slaughter. None seemed too concerned if there was blood in the water they then drank. With a young monk attending to her horse, Faror Hend accepted the offer of a spare tent and made her own camp a short distance from the others. She had not yet decided if she liked Caplo Dreem. Warlock Resh, on the other hand, was a man used to his size. There were people, men and women both, who lived awkwardly in their selves, whether timorous of the space they took, or imagining themselves other than what they were and so prone to colliding with or breaking things. In the manner of walking was revealed a host of truths.

In the outlier camps of the Wardens, where so many misfits found
a
home, Faror often took note of their diffident first arrival, carrying with them the wounds of isolation, ridicule or social neglect; only to see that frailty gradually fall away as each, in time, found welcome. Confidence was a seed that could grow in any soil, no matter how impoverished. She had seen as much again and again.

No such weaknesses attended Warlock Resh of the Yan Shake. Instead, in presence alone he bullied. In demeanour he challenged. She had felt herself bridling the moment she set eyes upon him, and was determined to stand fast against him. Years ago she would have quailed, retreated with eyes downcast. Now, as a Warden of the Outer Reaches, she had met the mocking in his eyes with flat resolve. Men like him crowded the gutters of the world.

She built her own modest fire, to make tea, and was not displeased when T’riss, still dripping from her extended stay in the water, joined her.

‘Faror Hend, are these men who sleep with men? Do they abjure women and so consort only with their brethren?’

Faror smiled. ‘Some are like that. Others are not. The Shake monasteries are two sects. These are the Yan, Sons of the Mother. There also exist the Yedan, Daughters of the Father. Many sons are lifebound to daughters – a kind of marriage although not in the manner one usually views marriage. The lifebound can choose to lie with whomever they please. They can live apart and never attend to one another. But upon their deaths, they share a single grave.’

‘What deity demands this of them?’

‘None.’ Faror Hend shrugged. ‘I am not the one to ask. They are peculiar to my eyes, but of their martial prowess I have no doubt.’

‘It seems that the ability to fight is important in this world, Faror Hend.’

‘It has been and always will be, T’riss. We are savages in disguise, and let no pomp or indolence deceive you. At any moment we can bare our teeth.’

T’riss sat down opposite the Warden, her expression thoughtful. ‘Is civilization nothing but an illusion, then?’

‘Crowd control.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘That’s all civilization is, T’riss. A means by which we manage the proliferation of our kind. It increases in complexity the more of us there are. Laws keep us muzzled and punishment delivers the necessary message when those laws are broken. Civilizations in decline are notable when certain of their members escape justice, and do so with impunity.’

‘Are these a soldier’s thoughts, Faror Hend?’

‘My mother and father lived scholarly lives. An aberration among the
Duravs
. Both were killed by a Jheleck raiding party, murdered in their home, which was then set aflame. The fate of my younger sisters was, alas, far worse.’

‘And to answer such cruelty, you took up the sword.’

‘I fled, if truth be known. What worth knowledge when the savage bares teeth? Thus, I fight to defend civilization, but know well the ephemeral nature of that which I defend. Against ignorance there is no front line. Against viciousness no border can hold. It breeds as readily behind your back as elsewhere.’

‘What of life’s pleasures? Its joys, its wonders?’

Faror Hend shrugged. ‘Equally ephemeral, but in the instance, drink deep. Ah, the tea is ready.’

* * *

The two-handed axe thumped to the ground and a moment later Warlock Resh joined it, grunting and taking a moment to crook his neck to each side. ‘Killing gives me a headache,’ he said in a low rumble.

‘But dying hurts more,’ Caplo replied. He twisted in his seat to regard the two women at the distant fire. ‘I am prone to pettiness.’

‘You are political.’

Caplo glanced back at Resh. ‘I just said that.’

‘Calat Hustain demands her immediate return? Utter rubbish.’

‘Not entirely. I’m sure he does. In any case, I see some value in our being the ones to deliver the Azathanai to Kharkanas. Besides, Mother Sheccanto felt this one’s arrival.’

‘Felt the twist of her sorcery, you mean. As did I. The ground convulses beneath her. This delivery may earn revile.’

‘That can prove useful, too.’

‘And this is the talent of your mind, Caplo: to stand firm on all sides of a matter.’

‘I accept the possibility, dear warlock, that we invite a viper into our nest. But then, we are hardly chicks waving stubby wings.’

‘Speak for yourself. I keep checking to see that I’m not sitting in my own shit.’

‘You’ve been doing that for years, Resh. This Azathanai – T’riss – is claimed as a spume-child of the Vitr, a most sordid birth for all her physical charms. What threat does she pose? What possible value the voicing of that threat? What portent her stated desire to travel to Kharkanas?’

‘On these three legs you will totter, Caplo Dreem.’

‘On three legs so do we all.’

‘Sheccanto will lather you in grease and send you into the Citadel, if only to see from which crack you squirt back out. And this gives purpose to your life?’

‘The Shake serve Kurald Galain. Note how Hunn Raal shied from our regard. He sought out Calat Hustain to the cause of Urusander, but not us. And, upon the other flank, when last did a nobleborn make formal – or even informal, Abyss fend – visit to our Mother or Father?’

‘All anticipate our neutrality – why would you take offence from their expectation, Caplo, when it shall clearly prove accurate?’

‘Offence lies in the assumption. The nest is sure, but how firm the perch upon the branch? How solid the roots of the tree?’

‘I am of two minds,’ Resh said, sighing as he leaned back on his hands. ‘Eager to pluck unknown fruit. Yet chary of its taste. Does this define temptation?’

‘No answer tempts my tongue. Thus, I leave you unassuaged.’

‘Magic is awakening. I feel its heat. I tremble to its beating heart. I grow still as death upon hearing the slither of vipers. Twigs raise scant obstacle. Our lofty height proves no barrier. Someone is bleeding, somewhere.’

‘Mother Dark?’

Resh snorted. ‘Her power is too cold for fire, too black for warmth. Hers is a heart yet to drum awake. In her company, even the vipers are blind.’

‘Then will she blind our guest, or will our guest come in fire and refutation?’

‘Truth?’

‘Truth.’

‘I imagine to each other they will have very little to say.’

Overhead the swirl of stars was bright, modest in its fiery light, bold in its unlit absence. Caplo studied it for a time as his brethren settled down to sleep, and then said, ‘Let us take a fresh grip upon the weapon and spare nothing in our charge upon a new slope, no matter its bristling facade. Note you the Warden’s intrigue?’

Resh yawned. ‘Her cousin is reputed fair indeed, although too winning for my tastes.’

‘Not one to succumb to your insistence, then? I am sure Spinnock Durav will little spare the loss.’

‘Her betrothed cleaves a forest of black grass in search for her.’

‘Slays myriad wolves and less handsome denizens.’

‘Seeks a suitable hole in which to drain ill Vitr Sea.’

Caplo sighed. ‘And sets siege upon her blandish indifference.’

‘All to no avail. Perhaps there is a thieving bird eyeing the stone mantel, where unknown words flow.’

‘Words not yet written.’

‘Some things need no chisel, no carver’s hand.’

‘True enough, O warlock. But I think this Azathanai has other
purpose
, not aligned to Faror Hend. Besides, dear T’riss has not a mason’s talent, nor one’s stolid comportment.’

Resh looked up, heavy brows lifting. ‘You think not? Peruse yon knotted horse. Think not too hard on it, lest your pallor grow yet more sickly. If that is even possible.’

‘Since I never heed your words, Resh, I will in fact give it further thought. But not now. All this killing has made me sleepy.’

‘Bah, while my headache clatters a plain of spears.’

* * *

The horses’ heads drooped. Sweat formed lather about their bits and made white streaks against their slick necks. They were through the forest of grass, out upon the lifeless verge with slumped knolls and rotted crags facing them. Sharenas Ankhadu had not thought such a ride possible, and these mounts were done. This thought irritated her. Kagamandra Tulas had succumbed to a kind of wilful disregard in his mad hunt for his betrothed. She glanced over at the others in the troop and saw well their drawn faces, their glazed eyes. They had gone in search of one of their own, yet no one life was worth the lives of these horses.

She never could understand the desperate elevation of a person’s value over that of other, less privileged creatures, as if every sentient mind was a lofty citadel, a self-announced virtue the loss of which staggered the world.

True, some worlds were staggered. Death’s kiss was always personal, and cold lips offered no solace. Unseeing eyes had a way of looking through and past those who dared meet them. Landscapes lost colour and breaths felt dry on the tongue. But all these feelings only stung in their mockery. They were echoes of sudden absence, the wail of the lost.

Animals knew the same grief. She had seen as much, time and again. Loss was universal. It was life’s own language, after all.

No, she was not irritated. She was furious, and when Tulas took up the reins again, she snapped out a single word. ‘No.’

He swung to face her.

‘Unless you fancy a long walk home.’

After a moment, Kagamandra slumped.

‘We have found the trail,’ Sharenas went on. ‘Leading back the way we came, although, granted, not the very same route we took. Lord Tulas, Calat Hustain dispatched these Wardens with more than one task in mind. Of course, we must discover the fate of Faror Hend. But also, we must confirm the tale of Captain Finarra Stone. We can return to this place upon our return journey, and so follow her track. But now, after a time of rest, we must set out for the shore – the trail here is plain. West.’

‘I am of a mind to leave you to it, then,’ Tulas replied.

The captain of the troop, a short, squat man of middle years named Bered, now cleared his throat, adding a dry cough before saying, ‘It is best we remain together, Lord. These are hostile lands, and for all your courage you cannot claim familiarity with it. We accepted the pace, true, but with misgivings. Now we must walk our beasts and then rest. This air is foul and will only get worse.’

‘She is my betrothed.’

‘And she is our companion. A friend to each and every one of us here. But we have great faith in her abilities, Lord Tulas. Still, should she have fallen, then no haste on our part will avail what remains of her. We will trail her, but with the expectation that the trail shall find no grisly end. In the meantime, it is as Lady Ankhadu has said: we must make for the shore.’

‘Besides,’ Sharenas added, ‘would you come this far only to deny yourself sight of the Vitr? Do you not wish to understand the purpose of Faror Hend’s duty in this land? Should you not see for yourself her avowed enemy? I will do no less, if only to honour her memory.’

He flinched at that last statement, but voiced no protest.

Tulas had tasted death’s kiss before. He could shoulder any new loss. She saw him find his resolve, like a man throwing on a cape of thorns, and saw too the hint of satisfaction, if not pleasure, in its bite. ‘Truly spoken, Sharenas Ankhadu. I am pleased that you are here.’ His lifeless gaze moved on to Bered and the other Wardens. ‘You as well. I see the strain in each of you: that you might have lost a friend. It is clear that my betrothed has found a worthy world in which to live. In all that you have already done, you do her honour.’

Bered’s reply was gruff. ‘And we expect to jest without repent in her company, Lord, in a few days.’

Tulas drew his horse to one side. ‘Will you take the lead now, captain, and read this faint trail?’

‘Thank you, Lord.’

Sharenas and Tulas waited for the others to set out, and then fell in side by side into their wake.

‘You must think me a fool,’ he muttered.

‘In matters of love—’

‘Spare all of that, Sharenas. You read well my fragile verve. This betrothal is my reward, and Faror Hend’s penance. Love does not rush between us. But I will give ease to her as best I can. My expectations are few and all chains I will cast away long before we join hands. She is welcome to take what lovers please her, and indeed to live out her days among the ranks of the Wardens. I begrudge her no decision.’