Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

The woman halted a few paces away, scowling. ‘You do not know me,’ she said in the Tiste language, but with a thick, muted accent.

Feren cleared her throat. ‘Forgive us, Azathanai. We do not.’

‘The Dog-Runners know me. I am found among them, on winter nights. They see me in the fires they light. I am worshipped and I see the worship in their eyes, the reflected flames of their eyes.’

‘Then,’ said Rint, ‘you have travelled a long way to come here.’

The scowl faded and the woman shrugged. ‘I would choose a shape of beauty. Instead, they feed me until I can barely move.’ With these words she reached to her belly, pushed her hand inside, and Rint realized, in horror, that what he had taken to be stretch marks were in fact scars — now wounds, one of them splitting open as she pushed her hand deeper. When she withdrew it, slimed with blood and ichor, she held in her hand a small clay figurine, bulbous in form. She tossed it at the feet of Feren, who involuntarily stepped back.

Rint stared as the wound closed, and the blood ran from the skin watery as rain, until once more the belly was alabaster white.

Feren was looking down at the clay figurine and after a moment she bent down and picked it up.

Glancing over at what his sister held, Rint saw that it was female, with a nub of a head — barely shaped — above huge breasts and a round belly. The legs were pressed together below an exaggerated vulva.

‘They feed the fire,’ the woman said. ‘And I grow fat.’

Raskan was mute and pale; he stood like a man who wanted to flee. The woman walked over to him. ‘Do I frighten you? Do you not want to feel my weight upon you? The wetness of my gift?’

Rint saw that Raskan was trembling.

‘I could make you kneel to me,’ continued the woman. ‘Such is my power. You think you understand beauty. You dream of women thin as children, and see nothing perverse in that. But when one such as I comes to stand before you, I sense your hunger for worship, even as that hunger shames you. Lie upon the ground, Tiste, and let me teach you all about power-’

‘Enough!’

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The woman halted a few paces away, scowling. ‘You do not know me,’ she said in the Tiste language, but with a thick, muted accent.

Feren cleared her throat. ‘Forgive us, Azathanai. We do not.’

‘The Dog-Runners know me. I am found among them, on winter nights. They see me in the fires they light. I am worshipped and I see the worship in their eyes, the reflected flames of their eyes.’

‘Then,’ said Rint, ‘you have travelled a long way to come here.’

The scowl faded and the woman shrugged. ‘I would choose a shape of beauty. Instead, they feed me until I can barely move.’ With these words she reached to her belly, pushed her hand inside, and Rint realized, in horror, that what he had taken to be stretch marks were in fact scars — now wounds, one of them splitting open as she pushed her hand deeper. When she withdrew it, slimed with blood and ichor, she held in her hand a small clay figurine, bulbous in form. She tossed it at the feet of Feren, who involuntarily stepped back.

Rint stared as the wound closed, and the blood ran from the skin watery as rain, until once more the belly was alabaster white.

Feren was looking down at the clay figurine and after a moment she bent down and picked it up.

Glancing over at what his sister held, Rint saw that it was female, with a nub of a head — barely shaped — above huge breasts and a round belly. The legs were pressed together below an exaggerated vulva.

‘They feed the fire,’ the woman said. ‘And I grow fat.’

Raskan was mute and pale; he stood like a man who wanted to flee. The woman walked over to him. ‘Do I frighten you? Do you not want to feel my weight upon you? The wetness of my gift?’

Rint saw that Raskan was trembling.

‘I could make you kneel to me,’ continued the woman. ‘Such is my power. You think you understand beauty. You dream of women thin as children, and see nothing perverse in that. But when one such as I comes to stand before you, I sense your hunger for worship, even as that hunger shames you. Lie upon the ground, Tiste, and let me teach you all about power-’

‘Enough!’

The command rang in the air. Rint was spun round by it. Draconus had appeared, Arathan a step behind him.

The Azathanai woman edged back, her scowl returning, and with it a spasm of venom that just as quickly vanished. ‘I was but amusing myself, Draconus. No harm.’

‘Begone, Olar Ethil. Skulk your way back to the Dog-Runners. These people are under my protection.’

She snorted. ‘They need it. Tiste.’

That word dripped with contempt, and dropping the figurine Feren reached for her sword, but Rint stepped close and stayed her hand.

Raskan staggered away, his hands covering his face. He almost collided with Draconus who moved aside just in time, and then fled onward. Now Rint could see the Lord’s fury.

The woman named Olar Ethil studied Draconus, unperturbed. ‘I could take them all,’ she said. ‘Even the woman. And you would not be able to stop me.’

‘When last we crossed paths, Olar Ethil, that might have been true. I invite you to quest deeper.’

‘Oh, no need, Draconus. Night rides your breath. I see where you have gone and what you have done and you are a fool. All for love, was it? Or am I being too… romantic. More like ambition, which, since we are not fools, you could not appease among us.’ She made a faint gesture with her blood-stained hand.

The clay figurine exploded with a sharp crack.

Feren cursed, reaching a hand up to her cheek and drawing it back smeared in blood. ‘You fat hag!’

Olar Ethil laughed. ‘Touched by the goddess! You carry a child, woman, yes? A girl… and oh, the hue of her blood is most unusual!’

Draconus stepped closer and Olar Ethil faced him again. ‘You wanted a grandson?’ she asked. ‘How disappointing for you. Come no closer, Draconus! You have my attention now. Gaze into the flames at night for too long, and I will steal your soul — you all have felt it. Your words die and the fire fills your mind. Draconus, I will look out from the flames. I will watch you, and listen, and discover your secrets. Although, granted, I already know most of them. Shall I utter your truths, O Suzerain of Night?’

Draconus halted his advance. ‘If you come to the flames of our campfires, Olar Ethil, even once, we shall do battle. Until but one of us remains alive.’

The woman’s eyes widened with shock. ‘Well now,’ she murmured, ‘all that armour… for naught. Death, Draconus? Be careful — the word alone is an unholy summons these days.’