Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

It was this that so disturbed her. Soldiers already possessed the means and the skills to impose violence or brandish its threat. To yield and heap wealth and land on them could only nurture the gardens of greed and ambition, and these were poison fruit that every highborn well understood.

Position and privilege imposed responsibilities. Unquestionably the defence of the realm was also a great responsibility. But defence against whom? With all enemies beyond the borders vanquished, who remains to stand in their stead, but those within our borders? An army is a fist poised to strike, but that clenching of fingers and focus of desire cannot be held for ever. It is made to strike and strike it must.

The poor Deniers of the forests and hills were now dying, but these were the lowest of the believers. How soon before the Legion struck the monasteries, and put to flame temples and abbeys? And who could not but see this in the most venal light? None were safe within the borders of Kurald Galain, from the very army created to defend them.

She thought of the highborn as the counterweight to Urusander’s Legion. But we present a sordid example, all things considered. Squabbling among ourselves, scrabbling for the highest elevation above our neighbours, and spitting venom upon the one who stands at Mother Dark’s side, as if questions of justice and propriety did not curdle on our own tongues! No, this was a wretched mess and in many respects the highborn had only themselves to blame. If a soldier risked her or his life, then it should be in defence of worthy things: family, promise, comfort and freedom from strife. But if a trench were cut across such virtues, where so many were left to scramble for the paltry leavings of those who most profited by that soldier’s sacrifice, then it was no wonder that scarred hands should itch.

They rode through the highborn district, with its clean cobbles and ornate gates, its blackwood carriages and healthy horses, its scurrying servants burdened beneath wares they did not own, and of which they would not partake. And the wealthy strolled — fewer than usual — through the dusk, warded by bodyguards, and, as always, contentedly unmindful of the world beyond their ken. She had travelled through the lower quarters of the city; she had seen the destitution and disease breeding in the airs of neglect. But such boldness was rare among her kin.

It would be easy to blame the dwellers for the filth in which they lived, and to see that wreckage as a symptom of moral weakness and spiritual failure; as, indeed, proof of the inequity of blood and the making of privilege a birthright. In the manner of horses, breeding would tell, and if nags struggled before creaking wagons and bore whip marks upon their flanks, and warhorses knew only fields turned muddy with blood and gore, and the upper terraces of the city offered dry even cobbles under well-filed, iron-shod hoofs, then surely this marked a natural order of things?

She had begun to doubt. Too comforting by far these assumptions. Too self-serving the pronouncements. Too inhuman the judgements. The trenches were deepening, and the eyes that looked up and across that gulf were hardening. The privileged had a right to fear these days, just as the dispossessed had a right to their resentment.

But Urusander’s Legion stood nowhere between that divide. They stood apart, wanting only for themselves, and they now gathered into ranks with weapons on hand, to take what the poor did not have and the rich had not earned.

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It was this that so disturbed her. Soldiers already possessed the means and the skills to impose violence or brandish its threat. To yield and heap wealth and land on them could only nurture the gardens of greed and ambition, and these were poison fruit that every highborn well understood.

Position and privilege imposed responsibilities. Unquestionably the defence of the realm was also a great responsibility. But defence against whom? With all enemies beyond the borders vanquished, who remains to stand in their stead, but those within our borders? An army is a fist poised to strike, but that clenching of fingers and focus of desire cannot be held for ever. It is made to strike and strike it must.

The poor Deniers of the forests and hills were now dying, but these were the lowest of the believers. How soon before the Legion struck the monasteries, and put to flame temples and abbeys? And who could not but see this in the most venal light? None were safe within the borders of Kurald Galain, from the very army created to defend them.

She thought of the highborn as the counterweight to Urusander’s Legion. But we present a sordid example, all things considered. Squabbling among ourselves, scrabbling for the highest elevation above our neighbours, and spitting venom upon the one who stands at Mother Dark’s side, as if questions of justice and propriety did not curdle on our own tongues! No, this was a wretched mess and in many respects the highborn had only themselves to blame. If a soldier risked her or his life, then it should be in defence of worthy things: family, promise, comfort and freedom from strife. But if a trench were cut across such virtues, where so many were left to scramble for the paltry leavings of those who most profited by that soldier’s sacrifice, then it was no wonder that scarred hands should itch.

They rode through the highborn district, with its clean cobbles and ornate gates, its blackwood carriages and healthy horses, its scurrying servants burdened beneath wares they did not own, and of which they would not partake. And the wealthy strolled — fewer than usual — through the dusk, warded by bodyguards, and, as always, contentedly unmindful of the world beyond their ken. She had travelled through the lower quarters of the city; she had seen the destitution and disease breeding in the airs of neglect. But such boldness was rare among her kin.

It would be easy to blame the dwellers for the filth in which they lived, and to see that wreckage as a symptom of moral weakness and spiritual failure; as, indeed, proof of the inequity of blood and the making of privilege a birthright. In the manner of horses, breeding would tell, and if nags struggled before creaking wagons and bore whip marks upon their flanks, and warhorses knew only fields turned muddy with blood and gore, and the upper terraces of the city offered dry even cobbles under well-filed, iron-shod hoofs, then surely this marked a natural order of things?

She had begun to doubt. Too comforting by far these assumptions. Too self-serving the pronouncements. Too inhuman the judgements. The trenches were deepening, and the eyes that looked up and across that gulf were hardening. The privileged had a right to fear these days, just as the dispossessed had a right to their resentment.

But Urusander’s Legion stood nowhere between that divide. They stood apart, wanting only for themselves, and they now gathered into ranks with weapons on hand, to take what the poor did not have and the rich had not earned.

She would be the first to scoff at the notion of hard work among her own kind. Tasks of organization were devoid of value without those being organized; without workers herded together with eyes downcast and the next day no different from this day and this life no different from the next one. She knew that she had been born to her wealth and land, and she knew how that inheritance had skewed her sense of the world, and of people — especially those in their hovels, who huddled in a fug of fear and crime and dissolution. She knew, and was helpless before it.

They approached the bridge and saw before them a large party of highborn, and Hish caught sight of Anomander — the silver hair, the mother’s legacy of his skin.

Gripp Galas rode up beside her on the concourse and said, ‘Milady, I am as unsuited to this company as the tale I bring to my master.’

‘Nevertheless, sir.’

Still he hesitated.

Hish Tulla scowled. ‘Gripp Galas, how long have you served your lord?’

‘Since he was born, milady.’

‘And how do you weigh the words you bring?’

‘An unwelcome burden on this day, milady. They journey to celebration.’

‘Think you your lord not aware of the violence in the countryside? He rides into smoke and ash this evening.’

‘Milady, the Deniers are a feint. The Legion but clears the field in preparation. They intend to march Urusander into the Chamber of Night. They intend, milady, a second throne.’