Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

T’riss pointed at one of the dead bodies. ‘Outlaws?’

Faror Hend nodded. Two robed figures were approaching. The larger of the two by far was thick-limbed, the muscles of his shoulders slung down as if by their own weight. His nose, twisted and flattened, dominated his weathered face, but the blue eyes were bright as they fixed on T’riss’s mount. Lying across this man’s broad back was a two-handed axe, single-bladed and spiked, over which he rested his hands.

His companion was almost effete in comparison, his skin pale and his features watery in the manner of the oft-ill. The short axe tucked behind his belt bore a shattered haft, and the man’s forearms were almost black with blood up to the elbows.

‘Death rides their breath,’ T’riss said in a cool voice. ‘Are these your kin?’

‘Monks of the Yannis Monastery,’ Faror replied. ‘We are within the demesne of Mother Dark. This is Kurald Galain.’

‘They took no prisoners.’

Close to thirty slain outlaws — men, women and children — now lay beside the gravediggers. Off to one side of the pond, a makeshift village pushed through the trees, shacks like open sores, doorways gaping, possessions abandoned. Woodsmoke drifted.

The smaller of the two monks spoke to Faror, ‘Warden, your arrival is well timed. Had you come here yesterday, you’d be the sport of little boys by now. I am Lieutenant Caplo Dreem, commanding this troop of Yan Shake. And this drooling fool at my side is Warlock Resh.’

Resh addressed T’riss, his voice melodious, like water on stone. ‘Welcome, Azathanai. That is a fine horse you’ve made, but I wonder, can you hear its screams?’

T’riss turned to Faror Hend and her expression was grave. ‘It seems that I shall be delayed somewhat in my journey to Kharkanas.’

‘Not too long I should imagine,’ the warlock said. ‘Yan Shake is on the way to the Wise City, after all.’

Faror Hend straightened. ‘Excuse me, but this woman is in my charge. I will deliver her to Kharkanas, and without delay.’

Caplo cleared his throat, as if embarrassed. ‘Your pardon, but you must be Faror Hend. Calat has fifty Wardens out looking for you, not to mention Kagamandra Tulas, who happened to be visiting your commander’s camp. Your presence is required by your commander, at once. To any who might come upon you, such was the message you were to receive.’

br />

T’riss pointed at one of the dead bodies. ‘Outlaws?’

Faror Hend nodded. Two robed figures were approaching. The larger of the two by far was thick-limbed, the muscles of his shoulders slung down as if by their own weight. His nose, twisted and flattened, dominated his weathered face, but the blue eyes were bright as they fixed on T’riss’s mount. Lying across this man’s broad back was a two-handed axe, single-bladed and spiked, over which he rested his hands.

His companion was almost effete in comparison, his skin pale and his features watery in the manner of the oft-ill. The short axe tucked behind his belt bore a shattered haft, and the man’s forearms were almost black with blood up to the elbows.

‘Death rides their breath,’ T’riss said in a cool voice. ‘Are these your kin?’

‘Monks of the Yannis Monastery,’ Faror replied. ‘We are within the demesne of Mother Dark. This is Kurald Galain.’

‘They took no prisoners.’

Close to thirty slain outlaws — men, women and children — now lay beside the gravediggers. Off to one side of the pond, a makeshift village pushed through the trees, shacks like open sores, doorways gaping, possessions abandoned. Woodsmoke drifted.

The smaller of the two monks spoke to Faror, ‘Warden, your arrival is well timed. Had you come here yesterday, you’d be the sport of little boys by now. I am Lieutenant Caplo Dreem, commanding this troop of Yan Shake. And this drooling fool at my side is Warlock Resh.’

Resh addressed T’riss, his voice melodious, like water on stone. ‘Welcome, Azathanai. That is a fine horse you’ve made, but I wonder, can you hear its screams?’

T’riss turned to Faror Hend and her expression was grave. ‘It seems that I shall be delayed somewhat in my journey to Kharkanas.’

‘Not too long I should imagine,’ the warlock said. ‘Yan Shake is on the way to the Wise City, after all.’

Faror Hend straightened. ‘Excuse me, but this woman is in my charge. I will deliver her to Kharkanas, and without delay.’

Caplo cleared his throat, as if embarrassed. ‘Your pardon, but you must be Faror Hend. Calat has fifty Wardens out looking for you, not to mention Kagamandra Tulas, who happened to be visiting your commander’s camp. Your presence is required by your commander, at once. To any who might come upon you, such was the message you were to receive.’

‘This guest,’ said Resh, with little in the way of welcome in his eyes as they held unwavering upon T’riss, ‘is now under the protection of the Yan Shake.’

‘I will convey my protest to Calat Hustain,’ said Faror Hend, furious — but it was the best she could manage, so confounded were her thoughts. Kagamandra Tulas? Has he come for me? How dare he! I am a Warden of the Outer Reaches, not some wayward child!

T’riss spoke to her. ‘My friend, it seems that we must part. For your company, I thank you.’

‘This sits well with you?’ Faror asked her, hands tight on the saddle horn to still their tremble.

‘If I tire of their company, I will continue on to Kharkanas, to meet Mother Dark. With respect to my person, I am safe enough. This warlock thinks much of himself, but he poses no threat to me.’

Caplo coughed. ‘Excuse me, but please, there is no threat in any of this. We are returning south, and without question Mother Sheccanto Derran will wish to meet this Azathanai, thus requiring a brief stay in Yan Shake. It is but a courtesy, I assure you.’

‘You’d best keep it so,’ Faror snapped.

T’riss was now studying the lieutenant. ‘I see you are well acquainted with blood, sir.’

‘I am, Azathanai. This band of cut-throats have well earned their fate, I assure you. Unpleasant tasks-’

‘And the children?’ T’riss asked. ‘Were they too cut-throats?’

‘Clay in twisted hands,’ Caplo replied. ‘They fought alongside their kin. The newborn were slain by their own, when we would have welcomed such waifs into our monastery.’

‘Despair raises high walls,’ Resh said, shrugging. ‘Lieutenant, the Azathanai spoke in truth. She has immense sorcery within her, like a child waiting to be born. Best not twist her hands.’

‘We shall display the utmost courtesy.’

‘Then I shall ask of you a favour,’ T’riss said to Caplo. ‘Provide Faror Hend with an escort, and perhaps a fresher horse. I would no harm come to her now that she must return to her camp.’

‘Unnecessary,’ Faror said. ‘But thank you, T’riss-’