Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1)

Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1) Page 67

‘Yes sir.’

‘With discipline comes certainty, an end to confusion.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘I don’t think you do, but I have done all that I could — who would dare claim otherwise? But you are drawn to impurity, and it grows like an illness in your spirit, Arathan. This is what comes of an improper union.’

‘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.’