Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

‘The Lord of Hate would not disagree with you, Lord. Which is why he has chosen to stand still. To take no step at all.’

‘Yet time bends not to his deep root,’ Ilgast retorted in a growl. ‘It but flows around and past. He vows to forget and so is forgotten.’

‘He has slain their civilization,’ Calat Hustain said, ‘and in so doing, proclaimed all knowledge to be dust. And so I am made to feel, Lord, gaping pits awaiting us ahead, that need not have been, if not for the Lord of Hate.’

‘The loss is only in what was written, commander. Might it serve us, in the matter of the Vitr, to seek out the counsel of a Jaghut? All have not dispersed, I understand. Some still reside in their old keeps and holds. I am of a mind to seek one out.’

‘Yet now the Jheleck have laid claim to the abandoned lands.’

Ilgast shrugged. ‘They could claim the heavens, for all it matters. A Jaghut choosing to remain in a tower cannot be moved, and those Soletaken fools should know better.’ He snorted. ‘Like any dog that’s been whipped, it is never humble for long. Stupidity returns triumphant.’

‘Hunn Raal carries word to Kharkanas in the morning,’ Calat Hustain said.

Ilgast regarded the commander with level eyes.

Trailing the woman she had named T’riss, Faror Hend saw the last of the high grasses dwindle a short distance ahead, and beyond it, worn and rotted, the range of denuded hills lying to the west of Neret Sorr. The sun was past zenith and heat shimmered in the still air. They rode clear and Faror called out to halt.

Their journey through Glimmer Fate had been uneventful, and in her exhaustion Faror had begun to believe that they wandered lost, despite her reading of the night sky, and that they might never find a way through the endless cobwebs and rustling blades. But now, at last, the Fate was behind them. She dismounted, legs weak beneath her. ‘We must rest for a time,’ she said. ‘I wager your horse is tireless, but mine is not.’

The woman slipped down from the grass-bound beast, stepped away. The simulacrum stood motionless, a woven sculpture too robust, too raw to be elegant. The faint wind against its angular form made a soft chorus of whistles. Red and black ants swarmed its neck, emerging from some hidden root-nest.

Faror Hend drew free the heavy water bag for her horse, loosened the leather mouth and set it down for the beast to drink. She drank from her own waterskin and then offered it to T’riss.

The woman approached. ‘Vitr?’

Startled, Faror Hend shook her head. ‘Water. Against the thirst.’

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‘The Lord of Hate would not disagree with you, Lord. Which is why he has chosen to stand still. To take no step at all.’

‘Yet time bends not to his deep root,’ Ilgast retorted in a growl. ‘It but flows around and past. He vows to forget and so is forgotten.’

‘He has slain their civilization,’ Calat Hustain said, ‘and in so doing, proclaimed all knowledge to be dust. And so I am made to feel, Lord, gaping pits awaiting us ahead, that need not have been, if not for the Lord of Hate.’

‘The loss is only in what was written, commander. Might it serve us, in the matter of the Vitr, to seek out the counsel of a Jaghut? All have not dispersed, I understand. Some still reside in their old keeps and holds. I am of a mind to seek one out.’

‘Yet now the Jheleck have laid claim to the abandoned lands.’

Ilgast shrugged. ‘They could claim the heavens, for all it matters. A Jaghut choosing to remain in a tower cannot be moved, and those Soletaken fools should know better.’ He snorted. ‘Like any dog that’s been whipped, it is never humble for long. Stupidity returns triumphant.’

‘Hunn Raal carries word to Kharkanas in the morning,’ Calat Hustain said.

Ilgast regarded the commander with level eyes.

Trailing the woman she had named T’riss, Faror Hend saw the last of the high grasses dwindle a short distance ahead, and beyond it, worn and rotted, the range of denuded hills lying to the west of Neret Sorr. The sun was past zenith and heat shimmered in the still air. They rode clear and Faror called out to halt.

Their journey through Glimmer Fate had been uneventful, and in her exhaustion Faror had begun to believe that they wandered lost, despite her reading of the night sky, and that they might never find a way through the endless cobwebs and rustling blades. But now, at last, the Fate was behind them. She dismounted, legs weak beneath her. ‘We must rest for a time,’ she said. ‘I wager your horse is tireless, but mine is not.’

The woman slipped down from the grass-bound beast, stepped away. The simulacrum stood motionless, a woven sculpture too robust, too raw to be elegant. The faint wind against its angular form made a soft chorus of whistles. Red and black ants swarmed its neck, emerging from some hidden root-nest.

Faror Hend drew free the heavy water bag for her horse, loosened the leather mouth and set it down for the beast to drink. She drank from her own waterskin and then offered it to T’riss.

The woman approached. ‘Vitr?’

Startled, Faror Hend shook her head. ‘Water. Against the thirst.’

‘I will try it, then.’

Faror watched the woman drink, tentatively at first, and then eagerly. ‘Not too much too quickly, else you sicken.’

T’riss lowered the skin, her eyes suddenly bright. ‘The ache in my throat is eased.’

‘I imagine Vitr did not manage the same.’

The woman frowned, glanced back at the forest of high grass. ‘An excess of vitality,’ she said, ‘can burn the soul.’ She looked again to Faror. ‘But this water, it pleases me. I imagine it in full coolness, about my limbs. Tell me, is there water in abundance?’

‘In places, yes. In others, no. The hills to the south were once green, but when the last of the trees were cut down the soil died. There remains a single spring, which we must now ride to. It is, however, a risk. There are outlaws — they first became a problem during the wars. Men and women who refused to join the legions and saw opportunity once the soldiers departed. Such militias as a town or village mustered were too small to extend patrols beyond the settlement’s outskirts.’

‘These outlaws command the spring?’

‘Like us, they depend upon it. When a troop of Wardens or a well-armed caravan arrive to make use of the water, they hide. We are but two, and they will see in that an invitation to make trouble.’

‘Do they wish to rob us, Faror Hend?’

The Warden looked back at the grass horse. ‘They may have cause to hesitate. Otherwise, we must fight to protect ourselves.’

‘I will see this spring, this place of abundant water. Are you rested, Faror Hend?’

‘No. Feed for the horse, and then for us.’

‘Very well.’

Faror Hend regarded her. ‘T’riss, you seem new to your… your form. This body you wear and its needs. Water. Food. Do you know what you were before?’

‘Tonight,’ T’riss said, ‘I will dream of water.’

‘Do you not understand my meaning?’

‘Dreams in the Vitr are… unpleasant. Faror Hend, I begin to understand this world. To make, one must first destroy. The grasses I made use of are even now losing their life, in this my mount, and in these my clothes. We dwell in the midst of destruction. This is the nature of this world.’