Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

Orfantal should have been accompanying this procession, riding his nag of a horse and knowing nothing of death or murder, or fear, or nights of weeping in the cold. By luck more than anything else, his fate had been within Gripp’s reach. But there was a score Gripp needed to settle, in that boy’s name, and settle it he would.

They drew within sight of the track.

It was then that Gripp noticed the carrion birds wheeling above their destination. Cold dread filled him, sudden as a flood. Without awaiting command or offering explanation, he kicked his horse into a canter, and then a gallop, rushing past the startled trio at the column’s head. An instant later his lord and his lord’s brother were following.

Gripp yanked savagely to wheel his horse from the road on to the track. Ahead, he saw the carriage — but no tents, no pavilion, no festive standards and no figures awaiting them.

But there were bodies lying on the sward, and a beaten retreat was marked out in dead Houseblades and matted grasses, straight to the house, and there, upon the steps Behind him someone cried out, but he did not recognize the voice.

The world was impossibly sharp around him, yet shaking as if jarred by repeated blows — but those sounded in his chest, and each beat was a fist against the cage of his ribs. The wound on his back bled anew. If a heart could have tears, then surely they were red.

He rode to the house and was down from his horse before it had stopped its frantic skid in the gore-flattened grasses. Limping past the body of Lord Jaen, through the doorway. The splash of blood on the walls, thick as mud on the tiled floor. Stumbling into the room, eyes struggling to fight the gloom, the brutal plunge from light into dark. One last fallen Houseblade — no, that was the Enes hostage, Cryl Durav, his chest broken open by sword-thrusts, one leg caked in blood, one hand mangled as it seemed to reach back towards the centre of the house. His face was twisted and almost unrecognizable, swollen and lined as an old man’s. Gripp stepped past him.

‘No further, I beg you,’ said a deep voice from the shadows of the main chamber.

Gripp reached for his sword.

‘I have kin to the fallen,’ continued the stranger. ‘Sadly injured. Asleep, or perhaps unconscious — I dare not test the gauge between the two.’

Behind Gripp, boots sounded at the entranceway.

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Orfantal should have been accompanying this procession, riding his nag of a horse and knowing nothing of death or murder, or fear, or nights of weeping in the cold. By luck more than anything else, his fate had been within Gripp’s reach. But there was a score Gripp needed to settle, in that boy’s name, and settle it he would.

They drew within sight of the track.

It was then that Gripp noticed the carrion birds wheeling above their destination. Cold dread filled him, sudden as a flood. Without awaiting command or offering explanation, he kicked his horse into a canter, and then a gallop, rushing past the startled trio at the column’s head. An instant later his lord and his lord’s brother were following.

Gripp yanked savagely to wheel his horse from the road on to the track. Ahead, he saw the carriage — but no tents, no pavilion, no festive standards and no figures awaiting them.

But there were bodies lying on the sward, and a beaten retreat was marked out in dead Houseblades and matted grasses, straight to the house, and there, upon the steps Behind him someone cried out, but he did not recognize the voice.

The world was impossibly sharp around him, yet shaking as if jarred by repeated blows — but those sounded in his chest, and each beat was a fist against the cage of his ribs. The wound on his back bled anew. If a heart could have tears, then surely they were red.

He rode to the house and was down from his horse before it had stopped its frantic skid in the gore-flattened grasses. Limping past the body of Lord Jaen, through the doorway. The splash of blood on the walls, thick as mud on the tiled floor. Stumbling into the room, eyes struggling to fight the gloom, the brutal plunge from light into dark. One last fallen Houseblade — no, that was the Enes hostage, Cryl Durav, his chest broken open by sword-thrusts, one leg caked in blood, one hand mangled as it seemed to reach back towards the centre of the house. His face was twisted and almost unrecognizable, swollen and lined as an old man’s. Gripp stepped past him.

‘No further, I beg you,’ said a deep voice from the shadows of the main chamber.

Gripp reached for his sword.

‘I have kin to the fallen,’ continued the stranger. ‘Sadly injured. Asleep, or perhaps unconscious — I dare not test the gauge between the two.’

Behind Gripp, boots sounded at the entranceway.

‘I am come late to this scene,’ the voice said, ‘but not as late as you, friend.’

Gripp realized that he had sunk down to his knees. His injured leg threatened to give way entirely and he set a hand down to steady himself. He heard his own breathing, too harsh, too dry, riding grief and fighting horror.

A dog trotted out from the shadows of one corner, where Gripp could now make out huddled forms. The half-starved creature halted before him, and then sat with ears laid back. Gripp frowned. He knew this dog.

‘Ribs,’ he heard himself say. ‘I missed you at the Hold. You and Rancept both.’

A scrabbling sounded from the corner and a moment later a figure staggered into view, both hands held out and groping in the air. ‘ Who comes? ’ the figure shrieked. The cry echoed in the chamber and Gripp flinched. No question could sound more plaintive; no need could sound so helpless, and yet none answered.

Behind Gripp stood Anomander — a presence sensed but not seen, but Gripp did not doubt. His lord spoke. ‘Kadaspala-’

The blind man lunged towards Anomander, and only then did Gripp see the dagger in Kadaspala’s hand.

He rose swiftly and grasped hold of Kadaspala’s wrist, and twisted hard.

Another shriek rang through the room, and the knife clattered on the stones. Gripp forced Kadaspala to the floor and held him there as he would a raging child.

Straining against the hold, Kadaspala lifted his head, and blood-crusted sockets seemed to fix unerringly upon Anomander. The mouth opened and then closed, and then opened once more, like a wound. Red teeth offered up a ghastly smile. ‘Anomander? I have been expecting you. We all have. We have a question, you see. Just one, and we all ask it — all of us here. Anomander, where were you? ’

Someone began howling at the hearthstone, a braying, hoarse howl that erupted again and again.

Kadaspala struggled and tried to reach for his knife on the floor. Gripp dragged him back and threw him down on to the pavestones. He set the weight of one knee on the man’s chest and then leaned close. ‘Another move like that,’ he said, ‘and I’ll cut you down. Understand me, sir?’

But Kadaspala’s mouth was gaping, as if he could not breathe. Gripp drew his knee away. Still the man gaped, those horrid sockets bleeding anew. All at once, Gripp understood what he was seeing. He cries. Without sound, without tears, he cries.