Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (126 page)

‘Your hands are wounded?’

‘No more than my soul, milord.’

‘You are young. An acolyte?’

‘Yes.’ Bowing his thanks for the food, Endest returned to the side of the road.

They continued on in silence for a time. Ahead, the track leading to the estate of Andarist appeared, flanked by burnt grasses and the skeletal remnant of a fire-scorched tree.

‘I do not think,’ said Anomander, ‘that I would welcome a consecration in that place, acolyte, even could you give it. Which you cannot. The only holy object in the ruin before us is an Azathanai hearthstone, and I fear to come upon it now, and see it broken.’

‘Broken, milord?’

‘I also fear,’ Anomander continued, ‘that my brother is not there, when I can think of no other refuge he might seek. I was told he chose the wilderness for his grief, and can think of no greater wilderness than the house where his love died.’

Endest hesitated, and then drew a deep breath. They were but a dozen paces from the track. ‘Lord Anomander,’ he said, halting but keeping his head down. ‘Mother Dark has blessed her.’

‘Her? Who?’

‘The maiden, Enesdia of House Enes, milord. In the eyes of our goddess, that child is now a High Priestess.’

Anomander’s voice was suddenly hard as iron. ‘She has blessed a corpse?’

‘Milord, may I ask, where were her remains buried?’

‘Beneath the stones of the floor, priest, upon the threshold to the house. My brother insisted and would have torn those stones from the ground with his bare hands, if we had not restrained him. Regrettably, there was some haste in that excavation. Her father lies beneath the ground at the entrance, and at his side is the body of the hostage, Cryl Durav. The Houseblades lie encircling the house. Priest, Mother Dark has never made claim to the souls of the dead.’

‘I cannot say, milord, that she does so now.’

‘What has brought you here?’

‘Visions,’ Endest said. ‘Dreams.’ He then lifted his hands. ‘I – I bear her blood.’

To utter those words was to unleash the torment within Endest, and with a cry he fell to his knees. Anguish rushed through him in waves black as midnight, and he heard his own voice emerging, broken and torn.

And then Lord Anomander was beside him, kneeling to draw an arm around him. When he spoke it seemed that it was not to the priest. ‘Why does she do this? How many wounds will she make us carry? I’ll not have it. Mother, if you would so share your guilt, look only to me. I will take it upon myself, and know it as familiar company. Instead, you make all your children carry the burden of your legacy.’ He barked a harsh laugh. ‘And what a wretched family we are.’

Then he was helping Endest to his feet. ‘Give me your weight, priest. We take these last steps together, then. Set hands upon the blank stones that mark her grave, and leave the stain of her blood. High Priestess she will be. Mother knows, she was used as one.’

The bitterness of those last words reached through to Endest, and perversely he took from it strength and renewed fortitude.

Together and on foot, lord and priest made their way up the track.

Through blurred eyes, Endest saw the half-ring of low mounds of freshly turned earth. He saw the front of the house, its doorway still bereft of a door. He saw the larger mound that marked the barrows of Lord Jaen and Cryl Durav. He had seen it all before, in his dreams. They drew closer, neither speaking.

Blood flowed anew from Endest’s hands, dripping steadily now as they came to the entrance to the house.

Lord Anomander paused. ‘Someone waits within.’

The stones of the floor just within the entrance were tilted, uneven now, and stained here and there with dirt, many of them in the patterns of handprints. Seeing this, Endest halted once more. ‘In my dreams,’ he said, ‘she is still dying.’

‘I fear the truth of that is in us all, priest,’ said Anomander. Then he moved past and stepped within. ‘Andarist? I come to set aside vengeance—’

But the figure that rose from its seat upon the hearthstone, in the heavy gloom of the unlit chamber, was not Andarist. This man was huge, with fur upon his shoulders.

Endest stood, watching, the blood from his hands dripping down on to the stones of Enesdia’s grave, and Lord Anomander strode forward to stand before the stranger.

‘The hearthstone?’ the First Son asked.

‘Beleaguered,’ the man replied in a deep voice. ‘Trust is strained, and the stains of blood cannot be washed from all that has befallen this place.’

Lord Anomander seemed at a loss. ‘Then … why have you come?’

‘We are bound, First Son. I have been awaiting you.’

‘Why?’

‘To defend my gift.’

‘Defend? From me? I will not breach this trust – for all that Andarist now denies me. I will find him. I will make this right.’

‘I fear you cannot, Anomander. But I know this: you will try.’

‘Then stand here, Azathanai, until the death of the last day! Defend this mockery of blessing so perfectly shaped by your hands!’

‘We are bound,’ the Azathanai said again, unperturbed by Anomander’s outburst. ‘In your journey now, you will find me at your side.’

‘I wish it not.’

The huge figure shrugged. ‘Already we share something.’

Anomander shook his head. ‘You are no friend, Caladan Brood. Nor will you ever be. I cannot even be certain that your gift was not the curse at the heart of all that has happened here.’

‘Nor can I, Anomander. Another thing we share.’

The First Son set a hand upon his sword’s grip.

But the Azathanai shook his head. ‘This is not the time, Anomander, to draw that weapon in this place. I see behind you a priest. I see in his hands the power of Mother Dark, and the blood she now bleeds, and so the bargain of faith is made.’

‘I do not understand—’

‘Lord Anomander, she has now the power of an Azathanai. This power is born of blood, and in the birth of a god, or goddess, it is that entity that must first surrender it. And you who are to be her children, you will surrender your own in answer. And by this, Darkness is forged.’

But Anomander backed away. ‘I made no such bargain,’ he said.

‘Faith cares nothing for bargains, First Son.’

‘She has left me nothing!’

‘She has left you alone. Make of your freedom what you will, Anomander. Do with it what you must.’

‘I would end this civil war!’

‘Then end it.’ Caladan Brood stepped forward. ‘If you ask, Lord Anomander, I will show you how.’

Anomander visibly hesitated. He glanced back at Endest, but the priest quickly looked down, and saw the grave stones crimson beneath him. He felt suddenly weak and sank down to his knees, sliding upon the tilted cairn.

He then heard, as if from a great distance, Lord Anomander speaking. ‘
Caladan
, if I ask this of you, that you show me how … will there be peace?’

And the Azathanai answered, ‘There will be peace.’

* * *

Arathan stood at the window of the highest tower next to the one named the Tower of Hate. The morning sun’s light swept in around him, filled him with heat.

Behind him, he heard Korya sit up on the bed. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘to have so disturbed your sleep.’

She grunted. ‘This is a first, Arathan. A young man rushing into my chambers without even a scratch at the door, but does he take note of my naked self? He does not. Instead, he rushes to the window and there he stands.’

He glanced back at her.

‘What lies beyond?’ she asked. ‘The view is nothing but a vast plain and the hovels of fallen towers. Look at us,’ she added, rising from the bed with the blankets wrapped about her slim form, ‘we dwell in a wasteland with miserable Jaghut for company, and on all sides the view is bleak. Do you not even find me attractive?’

He studied her. ‘I find you very attractive,’ he said. ‘But I do not trust you. Please, that was not meant to offend.’

‘Really? You have a lot to learn.’

He turned back to the window.

‘What so fascinates you with that view?’ she asked.

‘When Gothos woke me this morning, it was with mysterious words.’

‘Nothing new there, surely?’

Arathan shrugged. ‘The mystery is answered.’

He heard her move across the room, and then she came up alongside him. Looking out upon the plain, she gasped.

After a long moment, she said, ‘What did the Lord of Hate say to you, Arathan?’

‘“He is such a fool I fear my heart will burst.”’

‘Just that?’

Arathan nodded.

‘Haut tells me … there is a gate now.’

‘A way into the realm of the dead, yes. Hood means to take it.’

‘To wage his impossible war.’ Then she sighed. ‘Oh, Arathan, how can the heart not break at seeing this?’

They stood side by side, looking down upon a plain where thousands had gathered, in answer to Hood’s call.
No, not thousands. Tens of thousands. Jaghut, Thel Akai, Dog-Runners
…
lost souls, grieving souls, one and all. And still more come
.

Oh, Hood, did you know? Could you have even imagined such an answer?

‘And Gothos said nothing more?’

Arathan shook his head.
But when I found him again, seated in his chair, I saw that he wept. Children come easy to tears. But the tears of an old man are different. They can break a child’s world like no other thing can. And this morning, I am a child again
. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Nothing.’

* * *

I did not walk among them, Fisher kel Tath. Would that I had. He raised a banner of grief, and this detail waves my intent, but Lord Anomander, at this juncture, was not ready to see it. They were too far away. They were caught in their own lives. Too much and too fierce the necessities hounding them
.

But think on this. Beneath such a banner, there is no end to those drawn to it, not from the weight of failure, but from the curse of surviving. Against death itself, the only legion who make of it an enemy belongs to the living
.

Behold this army. It is doomed
.

Still, even a blind man, in this moment, could not but see the shine in your eyes, my friend. You blaze with the poet’s heat, as you imagine this assembly, so silent and so determined, so hopeless and so
…
brilliant
.

Let us rest for now in this tale
.

Time enough, I say, for two old men to weep
.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Archaeologist and anthropologist
Steven Erikson
’s debut fantasy,
Gardens of the Moon
, was shortlisted for the World Fantasy Award and introduced readers to his bestselling ten-book sequence ‘The Malazan Book of the Fallen’, which has been hailed as one of the finest works of fantasy of our time. Steve lived in the UK for a number of years – most recently in Cornwall – before returning to Canada in the summer of 2012. To find out more, visit
www.malazanempire.com
and
www.stevenerikson.com
.

Also by Steven Erikson

THIS RIVER AWAKENS

The Malazan Book of the Fallen

GARDENS OF THE MOON

DEADHOUSE GATES

MEMORIES OF ICE

HOUSE OF CHAINS

MIDNIGHT TIDES

THE BONEHUNTERS

REAPER’S GALE

TOLL THE HOUNDS

DUST OF DREAMS

THE CRIPPLED GOD

THE FIRST COLLECTED TALES OF

BAUCHELAIN AND KORBAL BROACH

For more information on Steven Erikson and his books,

see his website at
www.stevenerikson.com

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