Forge of Darkness

‘We do not agree with giving hostages, Borderswords,’ Rusk now said, ‘but we have done so. Fine pups one and all. If you harm them, we shall slaughter the Tiste and burn Kharkanas to the ground. We shall split your bones and bury your skulls. We shall piss on your temples and rut in your palaces.’



‘No harm will come to the hostages,’ Rint said, ‘so long as you remain true to your words.’



‘So you Tiste keep saying. Even the Jaghut nod and say it is so. But now we hear that Tiste kill Tiste. You are a pack with a weak leader, and too many among you eager to take his place. There is blood in the mouth and fur on the ground in Kurald Galain.’



Rint held his gaze on the Jheleck and said, ‘We have been away for some time. Do you voice rumours or have you witnessed the things you describe?’



Rusk shrugged. ‘War rides the winds and lifts the hackles. We see you wound yourselves, and we wait to strike.’



Ville grunted. ‘So much for keeping your word!’



‘We fear for the safety of our pups, Bordersword. Just as you would your own.’



‘With you upon our borders,’ Ville retorted, ‘we had cause for fear.’



‘But that is done now,’ Rusk said, still grinning. ‘We live with the new peace, Bordersword. The peace of empty villages and empty lands. Often, we look upon your hunting packs, as they travel with impunity across our homeland, seeking the last of the wild beasts. And when those beasts are gone, what shall the Jheleck eat? Grass?’ He nodded. ‘Peace, yes, plenty of that, written in bleached bones in old camps.’



Galak hacked at a hind joint.



‘You have pups with you,’ Rint said, nodding at the others.



‘I teach them how to hunt, and so we all learn to go hungry, and come to understand all that we have lost. One day, they will be savage killers, and this night they take your scent and will keep it for all time.’



Feren said, ‘If you are going hungry, why offer any to us?’



Rusk scowled. ‘A host can do no less. But you Tiste do not comprehend honour. Only four days ago, the Borderswords gathered and rode out on to our land. They have word of a bhederin herd coming down from the north, and would make slaughter. They ride past our villages and laugh as they race our warriors to kill-sites. And when they have killed hundreds of the beasts, will they offer any to us? No. They will claim those carcasses as their own and take the meat, hides and bones away. We watch. We smile. And we vow to remember all that we see.’



‘The Bordersword villages need meat for the winter,’ Ville said.



‘And long before the war, you took all you could from our lands, and so we made war-’



‘And lost it!’



Rusk smiled again and nodded. ‘We lost, and you may believe that you won. But when all the beasts are gone, will your victory fill your bellies? Will it taste any less bitter than our defeat? What you own you must nurture. But you Tiste do not understand that. All that you own you use, until it is used up, and then you cast your vision past your borders, and scheme to take again, this time from others.’



‘I have hunted on your lands,’ Ville said. ‘I saw no nurture passing through your kill-sites.’



‘Then you did not look carefully enough. We take the weak and leave the strong.’



‘You took every beast,’ Ville said.



Rusk laughed. ‘We were defeated. We learned your ways of killing, but we found the winters long when we had naught but ghosts to hunt. You killed thousands of us. You made us few, and the irony of that is that it returned us to our old ways. And now we breed but rarely, and keep only the strongest pups. And when at last all the Tiste are dead, then we shall nurture the herds, until their numbers are vast once more, and we will make each new day the same as the day past, for all time, and know contentment.’ He held up his hands. ‘So we dream. But then your hunters pour over the border and the wise ones among us see the truth awaiting us. Yours is the language of death, and it will speak to us.’



Meat sizzled on skewers over the fire. The night had drawn close. Rint pushed away Rusk’s words and stared into the flames. He thought he could see the witch’s face, twisting with pain, the mouth opened to an endless shriek he could not hear but felt in his bones. He had wanted to spend this night alone, saying little and quick to take to his bedding. Instead, he found himself face to face with a filthy half-beast who smiled a smile devoid of humour, and whose dark eyes belonged to a wolf.



‘Rusk,’ said Galak, ‘when did you see the Bordersword hunters?’



‘Hunters, butchers, skinners, bone-splitters. Dogs, horses, mules and oxen pulling wagons. On another day their numbers would make them an army. They rode armed and wary, with scouts tracking our own hunters.’ He waved a greasy hand. ‘Days past now.’