Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

‘Yes sir,’ the man replied.

She watched the old veteran walk back to her unit’s camp. Hunn Raal had awarded her the rank of lieutenant and she was well pleased with it. Not her fault the best of the war was over by the time she reached an age suitable to soldiering. It was satisfying giving orders and seeing them followed without question, and this was just the beginning. Soon, they would all stand in the Grand Hall of the Citadel, eyes level with those of the highborn. She and her sisters were destined for the personal staff under Osserc, once he took command of the Legion. And it was clear that, even though Esthala technically outranked her, the real power here was with Risp, as she had just shown. She counted it among her own virtues that she could distil pleasure from the most extreme fiascos and disasters, and this mess was surely both.

Gripp Galas. That was unfortunate. Once footman to Anomander himself and proven in the wars. Anomander should never have let the fool retire.

Frowning, she watched two soldiers of Silann’s troop stagger off with a body between them. They had to hold it carefully balanced as the man had been disembowelled by a single sword cut. Gripp was said to have a temper in a fight. She wagered that was his work. That man had died in pain. She walked over to Esthala.

‘Captain, I am wondering about something.’

Distracted and perhaps, now that she’d cooled down, also embarrassed, Esthala shrugged. ‘Go on.’

‘I am wondering what in the name of the Abyss was Gripp Galas doing with that traders’ caravan.’

Esthala faced her husband again. ‘Silann! Tell me, did you examine Gripp’s body? His gear?’

The man looked over and shook his head. ‘The spear point in the back took him off his horse. His corpse rolled into a damned crevasse, fell right out of sight.’

Esthala stepped towards him. ‘Didn’t you go down after him? To make certain that he was dead?’

‘He left a blood trail thick with gore — and that crevasse was bottomless.’

‘Gore?’ Risp asked. ‘Whose gore? He was stabbed in the back. Silann,’ she continued, struggling to control her panic, ‘bring us the soldier who stabbed Gripp. I want to see the spear point. I want to hear how the blow felt — was Gripp wearing armour? Was Gripp wearing leather, as befits a caravan guard, or chain, as befits a covert agent?’

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‘Yes sir,’ the man replied.

She watched the old veteran walk back to her unit’s camp. Hunn Raal had awarded her the rank of lieutenant and she was well pleased with it. Not her fault the best of the war was over by the time she reached an age suitable to soldiering. It was satisfying giving orders and seeing them followed without question, and this was just the beginning. Soon, they would all stand in the Grand Hall of the Citadel, eyes level with those of the highborn. She and her sisters were destined for the personal staff under Osserc, once he took command of the Legion. And it was clear that, even though Esthala technically outranked her, the real power here was with Risp, as she had just shown. She counted it among her own virtues that she could distil pleasure from the most extreme fiascos and disasters, and this mess was surely both.

Gripp Galas. That was unfortunate. Once footman to Anomander himself and proven in the wars. Anomander should never have let the fool retire.

Frowning, she watched two soldiers of Silann’s troop stagger off with a body between them. They had to hold it carefully balanced as the man had been disembowelled by a single sword cut. Gripp was said to have a temper in a fight. She wagered that was his work. That man had died in pain. She walked over to Esthala.

‘Captain, I am wondering about something.’

Distracted and perhaps, now that she’d cooled down, also embarrassed, Esthala shrugged. ‘Go on.’

‘I am wondering what in the name of the Abyss was Gripp Galas doing with that traders’ caravan.’

Esthala faced her husband again. ‘Silann! Tell me, did you examine Gripp’s body? His gear?’

The man looked over and shook his head. ‘The spear point in the back took him off his horse. His corpse rolled into a damned crevasse, fell right out of sight.’

Esthala stepped towards him. ‘Didn’t you go down after him? To make certain that he was dead?’

‘He left a blood trail thick with gore — and that crevasse was bottomless.’

‘Gore?’ Risp asked. ‘Whose gore? He was stabbed in the back. Silann,’ she continued, struggling to control her panic, ‘bring us the soldier who stabbed Gripp. I want to see the spear point. I want to hear how the blow felt — was Gripp wearing armour? Was Gripp wearing leather, as befits a caravan guard, or chain, as befits a covert agent?’

The blood had left Silann’s face. ‘That man died to the leader of the caravan guards — who was clearly another veteran.’

‘The gutted one or the one with no throat left? That one? Have you his weapon?’

A few moments later one of Silann’s soldiers collected up and delivered the dead man’s spear; as Risp reached for the weapon, Esthala stepped close and took it instead. Ignoring Risp’s scowl, the captain studied the iron point. ‘Might have struck chain — I see the bite of snapped links. The tip’s bloody, so it went through… about three fingers’ worth. If it severed the spine then Gripp’s dead or paralysed. Anywhere else and he’s wounded but not fatally so.’

‘He fell down a damned crevasse!’ Silann shouted.

‘Fell or rolled down it?’ Esthala demanded. ‘Did you see it happen?’

Swearing under her breath, Risp made her way back to her troop. ‘Muster out six more, sergeant! This hunt has turned serious.’

The sun was low in the western sky when Sukul Ankhadu summoned Rancept to the top floor of the High Tower. Upon the castellan’s wheezing arrival, she gestured to the large window. ‘I trust you have been made aware of smoke to the east.’

Rancept, it was said, was the offspring of a drunken woman and a sadly sober boar. Such observations were rarely made to his face, of course, because Rancept had his father’s temper, and enough brawn to make a bear cower. The castellan’s face looked familiar with tavern floors, his nose broken and mashed by countless brawls in his youth, unfortunately pushed back to give it the appearance of a pig’s snout. His teeth were uneven and stained and ragged from years of mouth-breathing. He was rumoured to be a thousand years old and as bone-weary as a man twice his age.

At her query he squinted at the window.

‘You’ll have to step closer to see it from here,’ said Sukul.

He made no move. ‘Mistress wants us stayin’ put, milady. Says there’s trouble on the way.’

‘Closer than we think, yes? That smoke smells to me of burning hides.’

‘Does it now, milady?’

‘You will have to take my word on that, castellan.’

He grunted, still squinting at the window. ‘Suppose I will at that.’