Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1)

Forge of Darkness (The Kharkanas Trilogy #1) Page 98

‘What?’

T’riss gestured. ‘Clay and rock, the dead roots beneath. Armed with slivers of stone. Below the deep clays there are bones, as well, and the husks of enormous insects all wonderfully hued.’

‘Can you make anything from the land surrounding you?’

‘If it had occurred to me,’ she replied, reining in, ‘I could have made guardians from the grasses, but in shape only that which I have seen. A horse, or one such as you and me.’

‘Yet you fashioned a sword with which to defend yourself, before we met.’

‘This is true. I cannot explain that, unless I have perhaps seen such a weapon before, only to have since forgotten. It seems my memory is flawed, is it not?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘If we are many, the outlaws will avoid us. So you said.’

‘I did.’ Faror hesitated, and then said, ‘What power do you draw upon, T’riss, in the fashioning of such creatures? Does it come from the Vitr?’

‘No. The Vitr does not create, it destroys.’

‘Yet you came from it.’

‘I was not welcome there.’

This was new. ‘Are you certain of that?’

T’riss was still for a moment, and then she nodded. ‘It assailed me. Age upon age, I fought. There was no thought but the struggle itself, and this struggle, I think, consumed all that I once was.’

‘Yet something returns to you.’

‘The questions you would not ask have given me much to think about — no, I do not read your mind. I can only guess them, Faror Hend, but I see well the battles they wage upon your countenance. Even exhaustion cannot dull your unease. I remember the pain of the Vitr: it remains, like a ghost that would swallow me whole.’

‘Whence comes your power, then?’

‘I do not know, but it delivers pain upon this world. I dislike this, but if necessity demands, I will use it.’

‘Then I would rather you did not, T’riss. The world knows enough pain as it is.’

To that T’riss nodded.

‘I suspect now,’ Faror resumed, ‘that you are Azathanai. That you sought to war against the Vitr, or, perhaps, that you set out seeking its source, its purpose. In the battle you waged, much of yourself was lost.’

‘If this is true, Faror Hend, then my only purpose is my own — none other seeks to guide me, or indeed use me. Are you relieved? I am. Do you think that I will return to myself?’

‘I don’t know. It is a worthy hope.’

T’riss turned back and nudged her mount forward.

Faror Hend followed.

The trail was well used, and not long ago a score of shod horses had travelled it, coming round from the west along the range’s edge, the most recent hoofprints heading in the same direction as the two riders.

‘I think we shall find company at the spring,’ said Faror Hend, moving up alongside T’riss. ‘But not outlaws.’

‘Friends?’

Faror’s nod was cautious. ‘A troop, I think. Perhaps a militia, out from Neret Sorr, or Yan Shake to the south.’

‘Let us see.’

They rode on.

The path twisted between crags, climbing steeply in places before levelling out across the spine of the first line of hills. Ahead, a short distance away, the ruins of a gate marked the pass. Off to one side was a lone blockhouse collapsed on two sides, revealing a gut crowded with broken masonry, tiles and withered timbers from the roof. The scatter of shattered tiles crunched under the hoofs of Faror’s plodding horse as they rode past. She saw her mount’s nostrils flare, followed by a pricking of its ears. ‘Not far now,’ she said quietly.

Beyond the gate, they traversed the remnants of a cobbled road, the surface buckled in places; in others the cobbles buried under white dirt made silver in the dying light. Shortly later, they came within sight of the spring, a green-fringed pond half encircled by pale-trunked trees. Figures moved about and horses could be seen, tethered to a long rope strung between two ironwood boles.

T’riss reined in. ‘I smell blood.’

The words chilled Faror. The men she could see were all dressed in light grey robes, hitched up round their legs to reveal supple sheaths of leather armour cladding their thighs, knees and shins. The bulk of their upper bodies hinted at more of the same beneath the thin wool. Single-bladed axes hung from rope belts at their hips. The men were bareheaded, their hair shaggy, wild.

A dozen or so were busy digging graves, while others slowly converged upon that impromptu burial ground, dragging corpses splashed in blood.