Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

Then they vanished within impenetrable darkness. A moment later the day’s dying light swept in once more, revealing an empty clearing.

No embrace. No words of love to seal this farewell. He’s gone. My father is gone.

He stood, alone, feeling lost. Feeling free.

Drawing out the clay figurine, he studied it. Olar Ethil’s gift, passing to him through the hands of his father. For all that it comforted him with its roundness and its weight, he wished that he did not have it. But it was all that remained, the only thing left that marked this vast journey, from the moment Sagander had made him halt and look back upon the gate of House Dracons, to this last, solitary instant, in the empty wake of his father’s departure.

Another gift soaked in blood. Hearing a sound, he looked up.

From across the clearing, two figures had appeared. A Jaghut in armour, and beside him a young Tiste woman, thin and sharp-featured. He watched them approach.

When they reached him the Jaghut spoke, ‘Is he within?’

‘He is, sir. Sleeping in his chair.’

The Jaghut snorted, and then strode inside. A moment later his voice echoed loud and harsh: ‘If you’re not yet dead, Gothos, wake up!’

The woman met Arathan’s eyes, and then shrugged apologetically. A moment later she frowned. ‘What are you doing here? Who are you?’

The challenge in her eyes made him recoil a step. ‘I am a guest.’

‘A guest of the Lord of Hate?’

He nodded, putting the clay figurine back into the pouch at his belt.

‘Was that a doll?’

‘In a manner of speaking. A gift.’

‘It’s ugly. I had prettier dolls, once.’

He said nothing, made uncomfortable by the directness of her gaze.

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Then they vanished within impenetrable darkness. A moment later the day’s dying light swept in once more, revealing an empty clearing.

No embrace. No words of love to seal this farewell. He’s gone. My father is gone.

He stood, alone, feeling lost. Feeling free.

Drawing out the clay figurine, he studied it. Olar Ethil’s gift, passing to him through the hands of his father. For all that it comforted him with its roundness and its weight, he wished that he did not have it. But it was all that remained, the only thing left that marked this vast journey, from the moment Sagander had made him halt and look back upon the gate of House Dracons, to this last, solitary instant, in the empty wake of his father’s departure.

Another gift soaked in blood. Hearing a sound, he looked up.

From across the clearing, two figures had appeared. A Jaghut in armour, and beside him a young Tiste woman, thin and sharp-featured. He watched them approach.

When they reached him the Jaghut spoke, ‘Is he within?’

‘He is, sir. Sleeping in his chair.’

The Jaghut snorted, and then strode inside. A moment later his voice echoed loud and harsh: ‘If you’re not yet dead, Gothos, wake up!’

The woman met Arathan’s eyes, and then shrugged apologetically. A moment later she frowned. ‘What are you doing here? Who are you?’

The challenge in her eyes made him recoil a step. ‘I am a guest.’

‘A guest of the Lord of Hate?’

He nodded, putting the clay figurine back into the pouch at his belt.

‘Was that a doll?’

‘In a manner of speaking. A gift.’

‘It’s ugly. I had prettier dolls, once.’

He said nothing, made uncomfortable by the directness of her gaze.

‘Do you always do that?’

‘What?’

‘Chew your nails.’

Arathan dropped his hand and wiped his fingers on his thigh. ‘No,’ he said.

SEVENTEEN

‘Did he ever speak of family?’

Feren said nothing to Ville’s question, and after a moment it was Rint who said, ‘Not that I recall. He talked only of House Dracons. It was the home he had made and if there was something before then, they were ashes he would not stir among us.’

‘Why should he?’ Galak demanded. ‘Sergeant or not, he was our commanding officer. I don’t see how our ignorance excuses anything. We may well be discharged from the Lord’s compass, but this does not absolve us from decency.’

‘He is not a Bordersword,’ Rint said in a growl. ‘I have no desire to ride back to House Dracons just to deliver a headless corpse. I have a newborn child and would see it.’

Feren held her gaze fixed on the way ahead, the rolling grasses and the dark wavy line that marked hills to the northeast. They had already left the trail they had made when venturing west. If Ville and Galak won this argument, they would have to cut across, straight east, to reach Abara Delack.

Their horses were tired, and the wrapped body of Gate Sergeant Raskan made pungent every wayward gust of wind.

‘We can build a cairn in the hills ahead,’ said Rint. ‘We can surrender his empty flesh to the realm of Mother Dark, and make all the necessary propitiations. There is nothing dishonourable in that. And if need be, we can send a message back to House Dracons, specifying the location of that cairn, should someone wish to come and collect the body.’

‘How could such a message not be deemed an insult?’ Ville said. ‘I don’t understand you, Rint. If we cannot hold to courtesy, what is left to us?’

‘I am past courtesy,’ Rint snapped. ‘If you and Galak feel it is so important, then deliver him. But I am returning home.’

‘Feren?’ Galak asked.

‘She took him,’ Feren replied. ‘The witch stole his soul. It matters not where you leave what’s left, or even that you make propitiation. Mother Dark will never receive his soul. Raskan is gone from us.’

‘The rituals serve the conscience of the living,’ Ville insisted. ‘Mine. Yours. His kin.’

She shrugged. ‘I see no salve in empty gestures, Ville.’

Galak grunted in frustration, and then said, ‘Would that we had never parted. You and me, Ville, we tell ourselves and each other that we ride in the company of two old friends. They well look the part.’

Everyone fell silent then, and the thumping of horse hoofs filled the cool afternoon air. Feren half closed her eyes, settling back into the rhythmic roll of her mount’s slow canter. In a short while they would slow their pace back down to a walk, and the distant hills would seem no closer and the homeland beyond would remain lost in longing and fearful uncertainty — as if distance alone could call its very existence into question.