Forge of Darkness (26 page)

‘My father’s weakness?’

The back of Sagander’s hand, when it cracked into Arathan’s face,
was
a thing of knotted bones hard as rock. His head snapped back and he almost pitched from his horse – there was hot blood filling his mouth – and then Hellar shifted beneath him, and a sudden surge of muscles jolted Arathan to the right. There followed a solid, loud impact, and a horse’s scream.

Sagander’s cry rang through the air, but it seemed far away. Stunned, Arathan lolled on the saddle, blood pouring down from his nose. As Hellar tensed beneath him once more, front hoofs stamping fiercely at the ground, making stones snap, Arathan tugged the reins taut, drawing in his mount’s head. The beast back-stepped once, and then settled, muscles trembling.

Arathan could hear riders coming back down the trail. He heard shouted questions but it seemed they were in another language. He spat out more blood, struggled to clear the blurriness from his eyes. It was hard to see, to make sense of things. Sagander was on the ground and so was the man’s horse – thrashing, and there was something wrong with its flank, just behind its shoulder. The ribs looked caved in, and the horse was coughing blood.

Rint was beside him, on foot, reaching up to help him down from Hellar. He saw Feren as well, her visage dark with fury.

Sagander was right. It’s hard to like me. Even when following a lord’s orders
.

The tutor was still shrieking. One of his thighs was bent in half, Arathan saw as he was made to sit down on the dusty trail. There was a massive hoof imprint impressed down on to where the leg was broken, and blood was everywhere, leaking out to puddle under the crushed leg. Against the white dust it looked black as pitch. Arathan stared at it, even as Feren used a cloth to wipe the blood from his own face.

‘Rint saw,’ she said.

Saw what?

‘Hard enough to break your neck,’ she added, ‘that blow. So he said and Rint is not one to exaggerate.’

Behind him, he heard her brother’s affirming grunt. ‘That horse is finished,’ he then said. ‘Lord?’

‘End its misery,’ Draconus replied from somewhere, his tone even and cool. ‘Sergeant Raskan, attend to the tutor’s leg before he bleeds out.’

Galak and Ville were already with the tutor, and Galak looked up and said, distinctly – the first clear words Arathan heard – ‘It’s a bad break, Lord Draconus. We need to cut off the leg, and even then he might die of blood loss before we can cauterize the major vessels.’

‘Tie it off,’ Draconus said to Raskan, and Arathan saw the sergeant nod, white-faced and sickly, and then pull free his leather belt.

The tutor was now unconscious, his expression slack and patchy.

Galak had drawn a dagger and was hacking at the torn flesh around the break. The thigh bone was shattered, splinters jutting through puffy flesh.

Raskan looped the belt round high on the old man’s thigh and cinched it tight as he could.

‘Rint,’ said Draconus, ‘I understand you witnessed what happened.’

‘Yes, Lord. By chance I glanced back at the moment the tutor struck your son.’

‘I wish the fullest details – walk at my side, away from here.’

Feren was pushing steadily against Arathan’s chest – finally noticing this pressure he looked up and met her eyes.

‘Lie down,’ she said. ‘You are concussed.’

‘What happened?’

‘Hellar attacked the tutor, knocked down his horse, and stamped on his leg. She was about to do the same to Sagander’s head, but you pulled her back in time – you showed good instincts, Arathan. You may have saved your tutor’s life.’ As she spoke, she fumbled at the buckle under his sodden chin, and finally pulled away his helmet, and then the deerskin skullcap.

Arathan felt cool air reaching through sweat-matted hair to prickle his scalp. That touch felt blessedly tender.

A moment later he was shivering, and she managed to roll him on to his side an instant before he vomited.

‘It’s all right,’ she whispered, using her blood-stained cloth to wipe sick from his mouth and chin.

He smelled woodsmoke, and moments later burnt flesh. Feren left his side for a moment and then returned to drape a woollen blanket over him. ‘They’re taking the leg off,’ she said. ‘Closing off the bleeding. Cutting the bone end as even as possible. Sagander still breathes, but he lost a lot of blood. His fate is uncertain.’

‘It’s my fault—’

‘No, it isn’t.’

But he nodded. ‘I said the wrong thing.’

‘Listen to me. You are the son of a lord—’

‘Bastard son.’

‘He laid a hand upon you, Arathan. Even if Sagander survives the loss of his leg, your father might well kill him. Some things are just not permitted.’

‘I will speak in his defence,’ Arathan said, forcing himself to sit up. The world spun round him and she had to steady him lest he topple over. ‘I am the cause of this. I said the wrong thing. It’s my fault.’

‘Arathan.’

He looked up at her, fighting back tears. ‘I was weak.’

For a moment he studied her face, the widening eyes and then the
scowl
, before blackness rushed in from all sides, and everything fell away.

* * *

Brush had been hacked down to clear space for the tents, the horses unsaddled and hobbled well away from the carcass of their slain companion. Ville had butchered as much horse flesh as they could carry and now crouched by the fire, over which sat an iron grille bearing vermilion meat that sizzled and spat.

When Rint returned from his long meeting with Draconus, he walked to the fire and settled down beside Ville.

Galak was still attending to Sagander, who’d yet to regain consciousness, whilst Feren hovered over the bastard son, who was as lost to the world as was his tutor. Raskan had joined his lord where a second fire had been lit, on which sat a blackened pot of steaming blood-broth.

Ville poked at the steaks. ‘First day out,’ he muttered. ‘This bodes ill, Rint.’

Rint rubbed at the bristle lining his jaw and then sighed. ‘Change of plans,’ he said. ‘You and Galak are to take the tutor to Abara Delack and leave him in the care of the monks, and then catch us up.’

‘And the boy? Coma’s a bad thing, Rint. Might never wake up.’

‘He’ll wake up,’ Rint said. ‘With an aching skull. It was that damned helmet, that lump of heavy iron, when his head was snapped back. It’s a mild concussion, Ville. The real risk was breaking his neck, but thankfully he was spared that.’

Ville squinted across at him. ‘That must’ve been some blow – didn’t know the old man was that strong.’

‘The boy wasn’t expecting it at all – Abyss knows, no reason to. Anyway, we’ll take it slow on the morrow, Feren keeping a close eye.’

‘And the Lord’s judgement?’

Rint was silent for a moment, and then he shrugged. ‘He didn’t share that with me, Ville. But you know how they look on such things.’

‘Bad luck for Sagander. Makes me wonder why me and Galak got to take him to Abara Delack. Why not just slit the fool’s throat and stick his head on a pole?’

‘You worked on him hard – the Lord saw that.’

Ville grunted. ‘Don’t want to insult us, then?’

‘If you like. Thing is, there’s proper forms, I suppose. Making a point about something ain’t no use if there’s no way of people seeing it.’

‘What about Abara Delack, then? What do we tell the monks, since this whole trip was supposed to be a secret?’

‘You were escorting the tutor to the monastery – they make the finest paper, after all.’

‘Used to, you mean.’

‘You tried explaining that to the tutor, but the old man was fixed on it.’

‘So, if he comes round we’d best be there – to tell him how it is.’

‘No. If he survives the night we’re to wake him tomorrow morning, and Draconus himself will tell the tutor what needs telling.’

‘Then we catch you up.’

Rint nodded, drawing a knife to stab at a steak.

Ville snorted. ‘Why’d I bother? Might as well take bites out the carcass itself.’

‘But then you don’t get the smoky flavour, Ville.’

Feren joined them. ‘It’s normal sleep now,’ she said, sitting down. ‘He’s tossing and turning, but not so much – no fever. Breathing’s deep and steady.’

Ville was studying Feren with narrow eyes, and then he grinned. ‘Never saw you being a mother before, Feren.’

‘Nor will you, if you value your life, Ville.’ She set a hand on Rint’s arm. ‘Brother, what I told you earlier.’

When he shot her a look, she simply nodded.

Rint studied the half-raw meat in his hands, and then resumed chewing.

‘You two can be so damned irritating,’ Ville muttered, reaching to turn the remaining steaks again.

* * *

Sergeant Raskan dipped a knife blade into the blood-broth. The soup was thickening nicely. Sagander might retch at the taste, at least at first, but this rich broth might well save his life.

Draconus stood beside him, eyeing the horses. ‘I was wrong to take Hellar from him, I think.’

‘Lord?’

‘They are truly bound now.’

‘Yes, Lord, that they are. She acted fast – no hesitation at all. That mare will give her life defending Arathan, you can be sure of that.’

‘I am … now.’

‘Not like the tutor, was it, Lord?’

‘There can be deep bitterness, sergeant, when youth dwindles into the distant past. When the ache of bones and muscles is joined by the ache of longing, and regrets haunt a soul day and night.’

Raskan considered this, as respectfully as he could, and then he shook his head. ‘Your capacity for forgiveness is greater than mine would be, Lord—’

‘I have not spoken of forgiveness, sergeant.’

Raskan nodded. ‘That is true. But, Lord, were a man to so strike my son—’

‘Enough of that,’ Draconus cut in, his tone deepening. ‘There are matters beyond you here, sergeant. Still, no need for you to apologize – you spoke from your heart and I will respect that. Indeed, I begin to believe it is the only thing worth respecting, no matter our station, or our fate.’

Stirring the blood-broth again, Raskan said nothing. For a moment there, he had forgotten the vast divide between him and Lord Draconus. He had indeed spoken from his heart, but in an unguarded, unmindful fashion. Among other highborn, his comment might well have earned a beating; even a stripping of his rank.

But Draconus did not work that way, and he met the eye of every soldier and every servant under his care.
Ah, now if only he would do that for his only son
.

‘I see by the firelight that your boots are sadly worn, sergeant.’

‘It’s the way I walk, Lord.’

‘Out here, moccasins are far better suited.’

‘Yes, Lord, but I have none.’

‘I have an old pair, sergeant – they might prove somewhat too large, but if you do as do the Borderswords – filling them out as needed with fragrant grasses – then you will find them serviceable.’

‘Lord, I—’

‘You would refuse my generosity, sergeant?’

‘No, Lord. Thank you.’

There was a long time of silence. Raskan glanced over to where the Borderswords were crouched round the second cookfire. Ville had called out that the steaks were ready but neither the sergeant nor his lord moved. Hungry though he was, the cloying reek of the blood-broth had drowned Raskan’s appetite. Besides, he could not abandon Draconus without leave to do so.

‘This swirl of stars,’ Draconus suddenly said, ‘marks the plunge of light into darkness. These stars, they are distant suns, shining their light down upon distant, unknown worlds. Worlds, perhaps, little different from this one. Or vastly different. It hardly matters. Each star swirls its path towards the centre, and at that centre there is death – the death of light, the death of time itself.’

Shaken, Raskan said nothing. He had never heard such notions before – was this what the scholars in Kharkanas believed?

‘Tiste are comforted by their own ignorance,’ Draconus said. ‘Do not imagine, sergeant, that such matters are discussed at court. No. Instead, imagine the lofty realm of scholars and philosophers as little different from a garrison of soldiers, cooped up too long and too close in each other’s company. Squalid, venal, pernicious, poisoned with ambitions, a community of betrayal and jealously guarded prejudices. Titles are like splashes of thin paint upon ugly stone – the colour may look pretty,
but
what lies behind it does not change. Of itself, knowledge holds no virtue – it is armour and sword, and while armour protects it also isolates, and while a sword can swing true, so too can it wound its wielder.’

Raskan stirred the soup, feeling strangely frightened. He had no thoughts he could give voice to, no opinions that could not but display his own stupidity.

‘Forgive me, sergeant. I have embarrassed you.’

‘No, Lord, but I fear I am easily confused by such notions.’

‘Was I not clear enough in my point? Do not let the title of scholar, or poet, or lord, intimidate you overmuch. More importantly, do not delude yourself into imagining that such men and women are loftier, or somehow cleverer or purer of integrity or ideal than you or any other commoner. We live in a world of facades, but the grins behind them are all equally wretched.’