Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (55 page)

‘Have you lost your mind?’ she hissed, but not quietly enough to be missed by the nearby soldiers. ‘This was not supposed to happen.’

He shot her a glare. ‘A caravan. We recognized one of the guards, and for damned certain he recognized us!’

‘What of it? A dozen old soldiers on the trail – that means nothing!’

‘A disbanded unit once more under arms, you mean. And to that old man it meant something. I think even the one commanding those guards had marked us as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But listen, Esthala, it’s been taken care of. No survivors barring a child who was quick to run off – and who’d listen to a child? The caravan was struck by bandits and that is all.’ His rush of words ended and he stood staring at his wife, his face smeared in dirty sweat.

‘A child escaped you? Go back and hunt him down!’

‘He’ll never survive the hills. No food, no water. The night will
probably
kill him – he looked no more than six years old. He rode out across a mudflat and lost his horse to it.’

‘Then he should be easy enough to find,’ said Esthala, crossing her arms.

Silann was scowling. ‘I’m not in the habit of killing children.’

‘I will lead a troop if you deem it necessary,’ said Risp, drawing them both around. Fed up with this unprofessional display, where whatever marital problems they possessed continually overwhelmed all propriety, she continued in a reasonable tone, ‘Silann’s unit is all chewed up. They’re tired and they have friends to bury.’

‘And what think you Hunn Raal will say to this?’ Esthala demanded. ‘We’re not yet ready for open bloodshed. You said so yourself.’

Risp shrugged. ‘My cousin understands the risks. You have plenty of country to cross, and thinking you can do it unseen is unrealistic. I agree with Silann that we need not worry about some hysterical, shocked child, but if you wish it, captain, I will find that child and we can put this matter to rest. Silann,’ she added, one brow lifting, ‘it seems your soldiers are out of shape. A few caravan guards mauled you badly.’

‘Veterans among those guards, Risp. And the old man was Gripp.’

‘Gripp Galas?’

‘The same. He killed the first two who came at him.’

‘How did he fall?’

‘A spear to the back.’

‘Who fired the wagons?’ Esthala demanded.

Silann turned away. ‘That was a mistake.’

Risp said nothing. The venom between husband and wife was growing ever more vicious. There was a son who had left the family, Risp recalled, taking the priestly orders and so disappointing his ambitious parents. No doubt they each blamed the other, but it was likely not the least of their mutual irritations. Glancing away, she could see the pillars of black smoke in the distance to the south, rising above the rough rocks. ‘Is Hish Tulla in residence at her keep? Does anyone know?’

‘No,’ replied Esthala in a tone that could dull knife blades. ‘She is still in Kharkanas.’

‘So it’s not likely they’ll investigate. As I recall, that old castellan of hers has no imagination and isn’t one to abandon the keep on account of a little smoke. If he sends anyone, it’ll be tomorrow and you’ll be long gone from these hills. I’ll catch you up on the north road.’

‘Take six of your own,’ Esthala told her. ‘If you come upon anyone from Tulla Keep, offer to ride with them if any searching takes place, and do not take no for an answer. I doubt they will look beyond the scene of the fight itself. The burnt loot is a problem – that’s a hoard of
wealth
gone up in smoke, after all.’ She fixed her husband with another iron glare. ‘See to your soldiers, husband.’

Risp gestured to her sergeant who stood a few paces away. ‘Ready the horses. Choose five with tracking skills and good eyes.’

‘Yes sir,’ the man replied.

She watched the old veteran walk back to her unit’s camp. Hunn Raal had awarded her the rank of lieutenant and she was well pleased with it. Not her fault the best of the war was over by the time she reached an age suitable to soldiering. It was satisfying giving orders and seeing them followed without question, and this was just the beginning. Soon, they would all stand in the Grand Hall of the Citadel, eyes level with those of the highborn. She and her sisters were destined for the personal staff under Osserc, once he took command of the Legion. And it was clear that, even though Esthala technically outranked her, the real power here was with Risp, as she had just shown. She counted it among her own virtues that she could distil pleasure from the most extreme fiascos and disasters, and this mess was surely both.

Gripp Galas. That was unfortunate. Once footman to Anomander himself and proven in the wars. Anomander should never have let the fool retire
.

Frowning, she watched two soldiers of Silann’s troop stagger off with a body between them. They had to hold it carefully balanced as the man had been disembowelled by a single sword cut. Gripp was said to have a temper in a fight. She wagered that was his work. That man had died in pain. She walked over to Esthala.

‘Captain, I am wondering about something.’

Distracted and perhaps, now that she’d cooled down, also embarrassed, Esthala shrugged. ‘Go on.’

‘I am wondering what in the name of the Abyss was Gripp Galas doing with that traders’ caravan.’

Esthala faced her husband again. ‘Silann! Tell me, did you examine Gripp’s body? His gear?’

The man looked over and shook his head. ‘The spear point in the back took him off his horse. His corpse rolled into a damned crevasse, fell right out of sight.’

Esthala stepped towards him. ‘Didn’t you go down after him? To make certain that he was dead?’

‘He left a blood trail thick with gore – and that crevasse was bottomless.’

‘Gore?’ Risp asked. ‘Whose gore? He was stabbed in the back. Silann,’ she continued, struggling to control her panic, ‘bring us the soldier who stabbed Gripp. I want to see the spear point. I want to hear how the blow felt – was Gripp wearing armour? Was Gripp wearing leather, as befits a caravan guard, or chain, as befits a covert agent?’

The blood had left Silann’s face. ‘That man died to the leader of the caravan guards – who was clearly another veteran.’

‘The gutted one or the one with no throat left? That one? Have you his weapon?’

A few moments later one of Silann’s soldiers collected up and delivered the dead man’s spear; as Risp reached for the weapon, Esthala stepped close and took it instead. Ignoring Risp’s scowl, the captain studied the iron point. ‘Might have struck chain – I see the bite of snapped links. The tip’s bloody, so it went through … about three fingers’ worth. If it severed the spine then Gripp’s dead or paralysed. Anywhere else and he’s wounded but not fatally so.’

‘He fell down a damned crevasse!’ Silann shouted.

‘Fell or rolled down it?’ Esthala demanded. ‘Did you see it happen?’

Swearing under her breath, Risp made her way back to her troop. ‘Muster out six more, sergeant! This hunt has turned serious.’

* * *

The sun was low in the western sky when Sukul Ankhadu summoned Rancept to the top floor of the High Tower. Upon the castellan’s wheezing arrival, she gestured to the large window. ‘I trust you have been made aware of smoke to the east.’

Rancept, it was said, was the offspring of a drunken woman and a sadly sober boar. Such observations were rarely made to his face, of course, because Rancept had his father’s temper, and enough brawn to make a bear cower. The castellan’s face looked familiar with tavern floors, his nose broken and mashed by countless brawls in his youth, unfortunately pushed back to give it the appearance of a pig’s snout. His teeth were uneven and stained and ragged from years of mouth-breathing. He was rumoured to be a thousand years old and as bone-weary as a man twice his age.

At her query he squinted at the window.

‘You’ll have to step closer to see it from here,’ said Sukul.

He made no move. ‘Mistress wants us stayin’ put, milady. Says there’s trouble on the way.’

‘Closer than we think, yes? That smoke smells to me of burning hides.’

‘Does it now, milady?’

‘You will have to take my word on that, castellan.’

He grunted, still squinting at the window. ‘Suppose I will at that.’

‘There was a highborn riding with those wagons. A boy of five or six years of age. On his way to the Wise City. To the Citadel, in fact. A child of the Korlas family.’

Rancept pawed at the silver stubble on his jaw. ‘Korlas? Good soldier. Always sad. Heard he killed himself.’

‘Officially died in his sleep or something like that.’

‘Festered wound I think it was, milady.’

‘You’re trying my patience, castellan.’

His squint narrowed until his eyes were thin slits. ‘I do that, yes.’

‘I want us to ride out – tonight – and catch up to that caravan. If there are bandits that close to us, we need to know.’

‘Not bandits, milady.’

‘I know that, you oaf! So who attacked them and are we under threat?’

He grunted a second time. ‘Safe enough up here.’

‘I insist we ride out! I want fifteen Houseblades, and a fist of tracking dogs!’

‘You’ll get one Houseblade, milady, and Ribs.’

‘Ribs? That dog is constantly surprised by the smell of its own butt! And one Houseblade isn’t enough – you are supposed to accord me proper protection.’

‘And I will, milady,’ and he now turned to her, showing his teeth. ‘That one will be me.’

‘Castellan, forgive me, but walking up the stairs to get here nearly burst your heart.’

‘Hardly, milady. My heart’s just fine and so is the rest of me, barring this nose you keep trying to not look at.’

‘Abyss below. Then it shall be you and me, castellan.’

‘And Ribs, milady.’

‘Find yourself a horse—’

‘On foot,’ he said. ‘It’s quieter.’

‘But look at me – I’m all dressed to ride!’

‘Me and Ribs will be waitin’ downstairs, milady.’

* * *

Orfantal crouched in a hollow surrounded by shattered boulders. The sky overhead was black, overcast, and the darkness on all sides had stolen away all the familiar features he had looked upon a short while earlier. In his imagination the world was now transformed, seething with motion. He heard strange sounds, stared helplessly into the blackness where he thought he saw something staring back at him.

He missed his blanket, and the fire of the caravan guards, which was kept alive through each night and which he’d find when awakening with a start, forgetting where he was and frightened – but that smudge of coals and the occasional flicker of flame seen through the tent’s thin fabric always righted him again. But now there was nothing, no tent, no Gripp snoring and muttering under his breath. He was alone and he felt nothing like a hero.

Shivers raced through him. He remembered his daydreams of a bandit
attack
, and just as in that story he had fled into the night, into the hills. But the truth of it, here in this hollow, was nothing like that epic adventure. His feet were numb; his hands hung heavy and insensate at the ends of his wrists, and he felt the beckoning of sleep, as if the cold were drifting away.

He had not crawled far from the basin where his horse had died. The hills had seemed too vast, too threatening to venture deep into. If he lost sight of the basin, he’d lose sight of the road, and then he’d be lost. The truth was, his courage had failed him and he felt ashamed. The smell of his own urine mocked him. He could taste his own betrayal, bitter and sickening, and again and again the shudder of the horse echoed through him – the feel of life leaving it as he hugged its neck. It did not deserve that kind of end, driven forward in fear, pushed into exhaustion, guided by a foolish boy. What would he tell Wreneck? He would rather the bandits had cut him down instead.

He gave up on his fear of the night and closed his eyes. He’d stopped shivering and that was good.

A footfall on gravel dragged him awake. His heart pounded hard and seemed to swell inside his chest. He struggled to breathe.

From over his head, atop the boulder he leaned his back against, a voice drifted down. ‘There you are.’

With a soft cry, Orfantal tried to lunge forward, but his legs gave way beneath him.

‘Easy! It’s me, old Gripp.’

The man edged down into the hollow, alongside Orfantal. A hand settled on his shoulder. ‘You’re chilled as the Abyss. I made up a camp nearby, scavenged some bedding. Can you stand?’

Tears were streaming down from Orfantal’s eyes, but apart from that first cry no sound would come from him. Shame was flooding back into him. He tried to get up but failed again.

‘You wouldn’t have lasted the night. Good thing I found you. That thing with the horse, that was a smart move – no way they was going to follow you out there.’ As he was speaking he gathered up Orfantal in his arms. ‘Lie still. It’ll be all right. I got to move slow, got a hurt back and a wrenched knee.’ And now Orfantal could feel the man limping as he carried him; a rhythmic sagging to the left as Gripp tried to put weight on that leg. The old man’s skin was slick with sweat, a detail that Orfantal could not understand. ‘Just a little further. Can’t have no fire, though.’