Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy 1)
Kellaras struggled for a reply. Henarald’s easy shift from the poetic to the pragmatic left him feeling wrong-footed. His thoughts felt clumsy, like a child’s when confounded by a puzzle box.
But the Hust lord was of no mind to await a reply. ‘When I am a child again, the grown-ups will retreat from my eye. Drifting away into their own worlds and leaving me to mine. In their absence I am filled with trust and I reorder the scale of things to suit my modest command. Time yields its grip and I play until it is time to sleep.’ Henarald paused to drink. ‘And should I dream, it will be of surrender.’
After a long moment, Kellaras cleared his throat. ‘Lord, my master well understands that such a commission is, at this time, unusual.’
‘There was a time when it was anything but unusual. But to call it so now is too coy for my liking. A commission for a sword from the First Son of Darkness cannot help but be seen as political. Will my acquiescence unleash rumours of secret allegiance and conspiracy? What snare does Anomander set in my path?’
‘None, Lord. His desire reaches back to the honour of tradition.’
Brows slowly lifted. ‘His words, or your own?’
‘Such was my understanding, Lord, with respect to the First Son’s motivations.’
‘In choosing you, he chose well. One day I will be a child again.’ Then he leaned forward. ‘But not yet.’ The sharpness of Henarald’s gaze glittered like diamond shards. ‘Captain Kellaras, has your master specific instructions as to this blade of his desire?’
‘Lord, he would it be a silent weapon.’
‘Ha! Does the cry of the sword’s supple spine unnerve him, then?’
‘No, Lord, it does not.’
‘Yet he would prefer a gagged weapon, cut mute, a weapon cursed to howl and weep unheard by any.’
‘Lord,’ said Kellaras, ‘the weapon you describe leads me to wonder which is the greatest torment, silence or a voice for its pain?’
‘Captain, the weapon I describe does not exist. Yet those fools in Urusander’s Legion would tell you otherwise. Tell me, will your master hide the origin of his blade?’
‘Of course not, Lord.’
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Kellaras struggled for a reply. Henarald’s easy shift from the poetic to the pragmatic left him feeling wrong-footed. His thoughts felt clumsy, like a child’s when confounded by a puzzle box.
But the Hust lord was of no mind to await a reply. ‘When I am a child again, the grown-ups will retreat from my eye. Drifting away into their own worlds and leaving me to mine. In their absence I am filled with trust and I reorder the scale of things to suit my modest command. Time yields its grip and I play until it is time to sleep.’ Henarald paused to drink. ‘And should I dream, it will be of surrender.’
After a long moment, Kellaras cleared his throat. ‘Lord, my master well understands that such a commission is, at this time, unusual.’
‘There was a time when it was anything but unusual. But to call it so now is too coy for my liking. A commission for a sword from the First Son of Darkness cannot help but be seen as political. Will my acquiescence unleash rumours of secret allegiance and conspiracy? What snare does Anomander set in my path?’
‘None, Lord. His desire reaches back to the honour of tradition.’
Brows slowly lifted. ‘His words, or your own?’
‘Such was my understanding, Lord, with respect to the First Son’s motivations.’
‘In choosing you, he chose well. One day I will be a child again.’ Then he leaned forward. ‘But not yet.’ The sharpness of Henarald’s gaze glittered like diamond shards. ‘Captain Kellaras, has your master specific instructions as to this blade of his desire?’
‘Lord, he would it be a silent weapon.’
‘Ha! Does the cry of the sword’s supple spine unnerve him, then?’
‘No, Lord, it does not.’
‘Yet he would prefer a gagged weapon, cut mute, a weapon cursed to howl and weep unheard by any.’
‘Lord,’ said Kellaras, ‘the weapon you describe leads me to wonder which is the greatest torment, silence or a voice for its pain?’
‘Captain, the weapon I describe does not exist. Yet those fools in Urusander’s Legion would tell you otherwise. Tell me, will your master hide the origin of his blade?’
‘Of course not, Lord.’
‘Yet he would have it muted.’
‘Must all truths be spoken, Lord?’
‘Does the riktal un-man you, captain? I can call for wine if you prefer.’
‘In truth, Lord, I had forgotten that I had goblet in hand. I beg your pardon.’ Kellaras swallowed down another mouthful.
‘He wishes a blade of truth, then.’
‘One that demands the same in its wielder, yes. In concord, then, but a silent concord.’
Abruptly Henarald rose to his feet. He was tall, gaunt, yet he stood straight, as if the iron of his world was in his bones, his flesh. In the pits of his eyes now, nothing was visible from the low angle at which sat Kellaras. ‘Captain, there is chaos in every weapon. We who forge iron, indeed, all metal, we lock hands with that chaos. We fight it, seeking control and order, and it fights back, with open defiance and, when that fails, with hidden treachery. Your master seeks a blade devoid of chaos. Such a thing cannot be achieved, and the life I have spent is proof of that.’
Kellaras hesitated, and then said, ‘Lord, First Son Anomander is aware of the secret of the Hust swords. He knows what lies at the core of every weapon you now make. This is not the path he seeks in the making of his chosen sword. He requests that the spine of the blade be quenched in sorcery, in the purity of Darkness itself.’
The Lord of Hust Forge was motionless, the lines of his face seeming to deepen the longer he stared down at Kellaras. Then he spoke, in flat tones. ‘It is said that the sceptre I made for Mother Dark now possesses something of the soul of Kurald Galain. She has imbued it with sorcery. She has taken pure but plain iron and made it
… unnatural.’
‘Lord, I know little of that.’
‘It now embodies Darkness, in some manner few of us understand. Indeed, I wonder if even Mother Dark is fully aware of what she has done.’
The direction of this conversation was making Kellaras uneasy.
Henarald grunted. ‘Do I speak blasphemy?’
‘I would hope not, Lord.’
‘But now we must take care in what we say. It seems, captain, that as her power grows, her tolerance diminishes. They are like lodestones, pushing each other away. Does power not grant immunity? Does power not strengthen the armour; does power not find assurance in itself? Can it be that those who hold the most power also know the greatest fear?’