Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

‘I care not. Let them worship stone if it pleases them. Unless,’ he added, ‘they would challenge me?’

‘Not you, nor the hand with which you wielded your desire. Instead, Draconus, they weep and seek redress.’

‘As I expected.’

Old Man was silent for a long moment, and then he said, ‘Draconus, be careful — no, we must all be careful now. In the healing they seek, they reach deeply into the Vitr. We do not know what will come of this.’

‘The Vitr? Then they are fools.’

‘The enemy is not foolishness, Draconus, but desperation.’

‘Who so reaches?’

‘I have heard Ardata’s name mentioned. And the Sister of Dreams.’

Draconus looked away, his expression unreadable. ‘One thing at a time,’ he muttered.

‘Much to make right, Draconus,’ Old Man said, smiling once more. ‘In the meantime, my child approaches.’

‘So you ever say.’

‘So I shall say until I need say it no more.’

‘I never understood why you were content with mere reflection, Old Man.’

The smile broadened. ‘I know.’

He turned round then and walked back to his house, the globe following and taking with it the bitter cold, the empty promise of dead air.

Halfway back, Old Man paused and looked back. ‘Oh, Draconus, I almost forgot. There is news.’

br />

‘I care not. Let them worship stone if it pleases them. Unless,’ he added, ‘they would challenge me?’

‘Not you, nor the hand with which you wielded your desire. Instead, Draconus, they weep and seek redress.’

‘As I expected.’

Old Man was silent for a long moment, and then he said, ‘Draconus, be careful — no, we must all be careful now. In the healing they seek, they reach deeply into the Vitr. We do not know what will come of this.’

‘The Vitr? Then they are fools.’

‘The enemy is not foolishness, Draconus, but desperation.’

‘Who so reaches?’

‘I have heard Ardata’s name mentioned. And the Sister of Dreams.’

Draconus looked away, his expression unreadable. ‘One thing at a time,’ he muttered.

‘Much to make right, Draconus,’ Old Man said, smiling once more. ‘In the meantime, my child approaches.’

‘So you ever say.’

‘So I shall say until I need say it no more.’

‘I never understood why you were content with mere reflection, Old Man.’

The smile broadened. ‘I know.’

He turned round then and walked back to his house, the globe following and taking with it the bitter cold, the empty promise of dead air.

Halfway back, Old Man paused and looked back. ‘Oh, Draconus, I almost forgot. There is news.’

‘What news?’

‘The High King has built a ship.’

Arathan felt a sudden pressure, coming from his father, an invisible force that pushed him away, one step, and then another. He gagged, began to crumple And then a hand pulled him close. ‘Sorry,’ Draconus said. ‘Careless of me.’

Half bent over, Arathan nodded, accepting the apology. Old Man had vanished within his strange house, taking the light with him.

‘I’m never good,’ said Draconus, ‘with displeasing news.’

The noses of the horses found the spring readily enough, and Rint leaned forward over the saddle horn to study the stone-lined pond. As Draconus had predicted, there were swifts wheeling and darting above the still waters, and now bats as well. Beside him, Feren grunted and said, ‘What do you make of that?’

A statue commanded the centre of the pool. A huge figure, sunk to its thighs, roughly hacked from serpentine as if in defiance of that stone’s potential, for it was well known that serpentine wore well the finest polish — not that Rint had ever seen a solid block anything near the size of this monstrosity, more familiar with small game pieces and the like. None the less, this seemed a most artless effort. The torso and every limb were twisted, the stone seeming to shout its pain. The scum of dried algae stained its thighs, evidence of the spring’s slow failing perhaps. The face, tilted skyward atop a thick, angular neck, offered the heavens a grimace, and this face alone bore signs of a skilled hand. Rint stared up at it, mesmerized.

Raskan moved past the two Borderswords, leading the horses to the pond’s roughly tiled edge.

Sighing, Feren slipped down from the saddle, dropping the reins of her mount so that it could join the other beasts in drinking from the pool.

‘I think it’s meant to be a Thel Akai,’ Rint finally said.

‘Of course it’s a Thel Akai,’ Feren snapped. ‘All that pain.’ She held in one hand three waterskins and now moved to crouch down at the edge, and began filling them.

Feeling foolish, Rint pulled his gaze away from the giant’s tormented face and dismounted. He collected more waterskins from where they hung flaccid from his saddle.

‘What I meant was,’ Feren resumed, ‘why raise a statue in the middle of a watering hole? It’s not even on a pedestal or anything.’

‘Unless it sank in the mud.’

‘And what monuments do you build on mud, brother?’

The water was cool and clear. Beyond the ledge, the pool seemed to drop away to unknown depths, but that was due to the failing light, Rint suspected. ‘I don’t trust magic,’ he said. ‘And this village reeks of it.’

Raskan grunted at that. ‘I feel the same as you, Rint. It makes the skin crawl. If this is what waits this side of Bareth Solitude, well, it’s little wonder we rarely visit these lands. Or the people who choose to live like this.’

Feren straightened and turned round. ‘Someone comes,’ she said.

Rint thought about spitting into the water and decided against it. He imagined Raskan was regretting his words, since it was likely that they had been heard by the Azathanai who now approached. Still crouching, he twisted to regard the newcomer. A woman of middle years, overweight but not grossly so; still, it seemed she sagged from every appendage, and the roll of fat overwhelming her belt had pushed away the front of her hide shirt and so hung exposed, the skin white as snow and creased with stretch marks. She had, Rint decided, once been much fatter.