Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

His nerves were ruined. This wasn’t what he wanted. He had heard that other companies were on the move, and even now death was being delivered across Kurald Galain. This had gone beyond the Deniers, the wretched poor in their foul huts. Things were spiralling out of control. Urusander’s Legion had saved the realm. They were heroes. But they had been treated badly; they had grievances.

He thought about Haral, that old Legion veteran. He thought about the emptiness in that bastard’s eyes when he was breaking Narad’s face — and the others watching, like that ogre, Gripp, as if fists were proper arguments, as if brutality belonged in the company of men and women, and children. That nobleborn brat, with Gripp on his shoulder like a sour crow — who said that that boy was better than anyone else? What made him worth more than Narad, or any of those dead Deniers?

The world was full of lies. And people keep telling us we need them, all in the name of peace. But the peace we got was poison. It’s all kept in place to feed the few — the ones in charge, the ones getting rich off our backs, our sweat. And they sell us the virtue of obeying, and keeping our heads down, and not taking what we want — what they got and we don’t got. They say they worked for it but they didn’t. We did, even when we did nothing — by staying in the shadows, in the alleys, in small filthy rooms, by shovelling the shit they dump on us when they walk past noses in the air.

None of it’s right. So maybe things do have to go down. Maybe it all needs tearing apart, every one of those lies. And maybe brutality is what’ll make us all equal.

Still, he dreamed of killing Haral. And Gripp and that boy.

Every face is ugly. Even the perfect ones.

Horses behind him. He twisted round to see that woman and four others. Coming for him. Terror spasmed in Narad’s chest, throbbed into the cracked bones of his skull like fists punching from the inside out. He drove his heels into his mount’s flanks and leaned forward in the saddle as the beast surged forward, knowing that he was now riding for his life.

She’s another Haral. Abyss spare me — I saw it in her. I saw in her what he had. Those eyes. I can’t take any more beatings. I can’t.

He felt his bowels loosening, and each jolt in the saddle warmed his crotch.

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His nerves were ruined. This wasn’t what he wanted. He had heard that other companies were on the move, and even now death was being delivered across Kurald Galain. This had gone beyond the Deniers, the wretched poor in their foul huts. Things were spiralling out of control. Urusander’s Legion had saved the realm. They were heroes. But they had been treated badly; they had grievances.

He thought about Haral, that old Legion veteran. He thought about the emptiness in that bastard’s eyes when he was breaking Narad’s face — and the others watching, like that ogre, Gripp, as if fists were proper arguments, as if brutality belonged in the company of men and women, and children. That nobleborn brat, with Gripp on his shoulder like a sour crow — who said that that boy was better than anyone else? What made him worth more than Narad, or any of those dead Deniers?

The world was full of lies. And people keep telling us we need them, all in the name of peace. But the peace we got was poison. It’s all kept in place to feed the few — the ones in charge, the ones getting rich off our backs, our sweat. And they sell us the virtue of obeying, and keeping our heads down, and not taking what we want — what they got and we don’t got. They say they worked for it but they didn’t. We did, even when we did nothing — by staying in the shadows, in the alleys, in small filthy rooms, by shovelling the shit they dump on us when they walk past noses in the air.

None of it’s right. So maybe things do have to go down. Maybe it all needs tearing apart, every one of those lies. And maybe brutality is what’ll make us all equal.

Still, he dreamed of killing Haral. And Gripp and that boy.

Every face is ugly. Even the perfect ones.

Horses behind him. He twisted round to see that woman and four others. Coming for him. Terror spasmed in Narad’s chest, throbbed into the cracked bones of his skull like fists punching from the inside out. He drove his heels into his mount’s flanks and leaned forward in the saddle as the beast surged forward, knowing that he was now riding for his life.

She’s another Haral. Abyss spare me — I saw it in her. I saw in her what he had. Those eyes. I can’t take any more beatings. I can’t.

He felt his bowels loosening, and each jolt in the saddle warmed his crotch.

None of this was fair. He was just trying to get by, to get through. Instead, he felt as if he were sliding down, and down, and no matter how he grasped or dug in his nails, he kept sliding. The scene before him was jarred and rocked with every clash of hoofs on the old cobbles. As if the world were breaking apart.

But his horse was fresher. He was outdistancing his pursuers — he could hear it. Once he was out of sight again he would cut into the forest, plunge into it and take any trail he found. He would lose them in the wild. He shot a look over one shoulder.

In time to see a score from Bursa’s troop surge up the bank and hammer like a fist into the five Houseblades. Animals went down with shrill screams. Bodies fell, bounced and flopped on the road.

One Houseblade sought to wheel round, to flee back up the road, but it was Bursa himself who hacked down between the man’s shoulder and neck, sword blade cutting through bone. The blow flung the victim forward, so that he pitched from the saddle and tore the weapon from the corporal’s grip.

Narad had let his mount slow, and now he reined in and pulled the beast round. The five Houseblades were all down, along with two of their horses. Soldiers had dismounted to make certain none still lived. He watched them push their swords into bodies, Tiste and animal, and it seemed there was no difference between the two — the actions were precisely the same, methodical and final.

He trotted towards them. He had fouled himself and this shamed him, but the relief upon seeing his comrades overwhelmed him and he looked through watery eyes.

Bursa had dropped down from his horse to recover his sword, and now he walked towards Narad. ‘You left a heady wake, Narad.’

The others laughed, but to Narad’s astonishment those laughs were not cruel.

‘There’s the river, soldier,’ Bursa added, pointing. ‘Get yourself cleaned up.’

‘Yes sir. It was the thought of another beating-’

‘We know. In your place I’d be the same. We all would. And you can be sure they would have tortured you to get their answers.’

Narad nodded. He dismounted and almost sat down on the road. His legs wobbled under him, but he forced himself to walk down the slope to the river’s bank. Behind him, soldiers were dragging the corpses from the road, back into the forest. Others were tying ropes to the dead horses. For all their efforts, only a blind fool would not see that something terrible had happened here. Blood and gore littered the span, staining black the white dust on the cobbles.