Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)
‘Hood, you cannot defeat death itself.’
‘You would know nothing of that, Draconus. I shall call for companions. My enemy shall be the injustice of mortality. I am certain that I will gather a few to my cause. The grieving, the lost, we shall be a solemn handful — but none will doubt our resolve.’
‘And where then will you find the shores of that unknown sea, Hood? What bridge can you hope to cross without releasing your soul to the very oblivion you seek to destroy?’
‘Heed well the lessons I will bring, Draconus, in my argument with death.’
‘I fear that we will not meet again,’ Arathan’s father said.
‘There are greater fears, Draconus. Make your regret modest and we’ll never have cause to curse one another, and in that may we find peace between us.’
‘You break my heart, Hood.’
‘Voice no such confessions, lest Gothos hear you and be incited to mockery. I never refused his arguments, though he might well choose to believe otherwise. Nothing of what he dismantled with his words was worth keeping. We are never eased for long by the accoutrements of self-delusion. Not that you will heed that.’
Draconus tossed the key across to Hood.
The Jaghut caught it. ‘Gothos chained me out of love,’ he said, eyeing the key he held. ‘And here you seek to free me in its name, but I am dead to such things now. One day, Draconus, I will call upon you, in Death’s name, and I wonder: how will you answer?’
‘When that moment arrives, Hood, we shall both learn what that answer will be.’
Hood nodded. He reached down and unlocked the first manacle.
Draconus turned to Arathan. ‘We are done here.’
But Arathan said to Hood, ‘Sir.’
The Jaghut paused, looked across. ‘What would you tell me, son of Draconus?’
‘Only of my faith,’ he replied.
Hood laughed. ‘Faith? Go on, then, I will hear it.’
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‘Hood, you cannot defeat death itself.’
‘You would know nothing of that, Draconus. I shall call for companions. My enemy shall be the injustice of mortality. I am certain that I will gather a few to my cause. The grieving, the lost, we shall be a solemn handful — but none will doubt our resolve.’
‘And where then will you find the shores of that unknown sea, Hood? What bridge can you hope to cross without releasing your soul to the very oblivion you seek to destroy?’
‘Heed well the lessons I will bring, Draconus, in my argument with death.’
‘I fear that we will not meet again,’ Arathan’s father said.
‘There are greater fears, Draconus. Make your regret modest and we’ll never have cause to curse one another, and in that may we find peace between us.’
‘You break my heart, Hood.’
‘Voice no such confessions, lest Gothos hear you and be incited to mockery. I never refused his arguments, though he might well choose to believe otherwise. Nothing of what he dismantled with his words was worth keeping. We are never eased for long by the accoutrements of self-delusion. Not that you will heed that.’
Draconus tossed the key across to Hood.
The Jaghut caught it. ‘Gothos chained me out of love,’ he said, eyeing the key he held. ‘And here you seek to free me in its name, but I am dead to such things now. One day, Draconus, I will call upon you, in Death’s name, and I wonder: how will you answer?’
‘When that moment arrives, Hood, we shall both learn what that answer will be.’
Hood nodded. He reached down and unlocked the first manacle.
Draconus turned to Arathan. ‘We are done here.’
But Arathan said to Hood, ‘Sir.’
The Jaghut paused, looked across. ‘What would you tell me, son of Draconus?’
‘Only of my faith,’ he replied.
Hood laughed. ‘Faith? Go on, then, I will hear it.’
‘I believe, sir, that you will prove Gothos wrong.’
The Jaghut grunted. ‘And is that a good thing?’
‘His argument, sir. It is wrong. You all failed to answer him and so ended your civilization. But that argument never ends. It cannot end, and that is what you will prove.’
‘An argument as endless as his confession? Hah! You are bold, son of Draconus. Do you also have faith that I will win my war?’
‘No, sir. I think you will fail. But I will bless you for trying.’
There was silence, and then Arathan saw tears track crooked paths down the Jaghut’s lined cheeks. Draconus set a hand upon his son’s shoulder and drew him back. The hand was heavy, but the grip promised no pain. Reaching the steps they paused and his father said, ‘Arathan, I regret not knowing you better.’
‘Father, from all sides you have been warned away from the path you are taking. Why do you persist?’
‘Because, son, I know no other.’
‘This is what Hood said of his own path,’ Arathan replied. ‘And Gothos. And Kilmandaros and Olar Ethil. It’s what all of you say, even when you don’t say it.’
‘Climb, Arathan. My time with you is almost done. I must return to Kharkanas. I have been gone too long as it is.’
Arathan ascended, his father following.
The Lord of Hate was still seated in his chair and seemed to be dozing, with an empty goblet in one hand.
Ignoring him, Draconus continued on. Outside, he collected up his horse’s reins and swung into the saddle. Looking down at Arathan he said, ‘Select an empty tower nearby to stable your mounts. There is a Jaghut living near. He is named Cynnigig. He is strange but harmless, and has great love for horses. He will ensure that your mounts are well fed and watered, and indeed exercised, but of the latter, do not lose your ties to Hellar.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Find somewhere near to sleep and make the best home you can. Do not unduly isolate yourself, and do not forget that a world exists beyond that of Gothos, and the Jaghut. When you feel ready, depart. You are a far greater gift than Tutor Sagander ever intended.’
‘Father, be careful in Kharkanas. They think they know you, but they don’t.’
Draconus studied him. ‘And you do?’
‘You are an Azathanai.’
His father collected up the reins and swung Calaras around. He rode out into the centre of the clearing, and as he did so the light faded around him, as if night itself had been summoned and now drew close to welcome its suzerain. In the moments before all light vanished, swallowing Draconus and his mount, Arathan saw a transformation come to Calaras. The stallion’s black hide deepened, his form blurring at the edges, his eyes flaring as if suddenly lit with lurid flames.