Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

ABOUT THE BOOK

Now is the time to tell a tragic tale that sets the stage for all the tales yet to come and all those already told .

It is the Age of Darkness and the realm called Kuruld Galain home of the Tiste Andii and ruled over by Mother Dark from her citadel in Kharkanas is in a perilous state. For the commoners great warrior hero, Vatha Urusander, is being championed by his followers to take Mother Darks hand in marriage but her Consort, Lord Draconus, stands in the way of such ambition.

As the impending clash between these two rival powers sends fissures rippling across the land and rumours of civil war flare and take hold amongst the people, so an ancient power emerges from seas once thought to be long dead. None can fathom its true purpose nor comprehend its potential. And caught in the middle of this seemingly inevitable conflagration are the First Sons of Darkness Anomander, Andarist and Silchas Ruin of the Purake Hold and they are about to reshape the world

Here begins Steven Eriksons epic tale of bitter family rivalries, of jealousies and betrayals, of wild magic and unfettered power and of the forging of a sword.

Contents

FORGE OF DARKNESS

Steven Erikson

Clare Thomas, with love

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my advance readers: Aidan Paul Canavan, Sharon Sasaki, Darren Turpin, William and Hazel Hunter and Baria Ahmed.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

PURAKE HOLD

Anomander

Andarist

Silchas Ruin

Kellaras

Prazek

Dathenar

DRACONS HOLD

Draconus

Ivis

Spite

Envy

Malice

Arathan

Raskan

Sagander

TULLA HOLD

Hish Tulla

Rancept

Sukul Ankhadu (hostage)

HOUSE ENES

Jaen Enes

Enesdia

Kadaspala

Cryl Durav (hostage)

HOUSE DURAV

Spinnock Durav

Faror Hend

HUST HOLD (and Legion)

Hust Henarald

Calat Hustain

Finarra Stone

Toras Redone

Galar Baras

ABARA DELACK

Korya Delath

Nerys Drukorlat

Sandalath Drukorlat

Orfantal

Wreneck

NERET SORR

Vatha Urusander

Osserc

Hunn Raal

Risp

Sevegg

Serap

Renarr

Gurren

URUSANDERS LEGION OFFICERS

Scara Bandaris

Ilgast Rend

Hallyd Bahann

Esthala

Kagamandra Tulas

Sharenas Ankhadu

Tathe Lorat

Infayen Menand

THE BORDERSWORDS

Rint

Ville

Feren

Galak

Lahanis

Traj

THE CITADEL

Syntara

Emral Lanear

Endest Silann

Cedorpul

Rise Herat

Legyl Behust

Mother Dark

THE SHAKE

Sheccanto Derran

Warlock Resh

Caplo Dreem

Skelenal

Witch Ruvera

THE AZATHANAI

Grizzin Farl

Kilmandaros

Sechul Lath

Errastas

Caladan Brood

Triss

Old Man

THE JAGHUT

Hood

Gothos

Haut

Varandas

Korya Delath (hostage)

OTHERS

Gripp Galas

Haral

Narad

Bursa

Olar Ethil

The Tiste: Holds, Greater and Lesser Houses, Priesthood and Court

PRELUDE

so you have found me and would know the tale. When a poet speaks of truth to another poet, what hope has truth? Let me ask this, then. Does one find memory in invention? Or will you find invention in memory? Which bows in servitude before the other? Will the measure of greatness be weighed solely in the details? Perhaps so, if details make up the full weft of the world, if themes are nothing more than the composite of lists perfectly ordered and unerringly rendered; and if I should kneel before invention, as if it were memory made perfect .

Do I look like a man who would kneel?

There are no singular tales. Nothing that stands alone is worth looking at. You and me, we know this. We could fill a thousand scrolls recounting the lives of those who believe they are each both beginning and end, those who fit the totality of the universe into small wooden boxes which they then tuck under one arm you have seen them marching past, Im sure. They have somewhere to go, and wherever that place is, why, it needs them, and failing their dramatic arrival it would surely cease to exist .

Is my laughter cynical? Derisive? Do I sigh and remind myself yet again that truths are like seeds hidden in the ground, and should you tend to them who may say what wild life will spring into view? Prediction is folly, belligerent assertion pathetic. But all such arguments are past us now. If we ever spat them out it was long ago, in another age, when we both were younger than we thought we were .

This tale shall be like Tiam herself, a creature of many heads. It is in my nature to wear masks, and to speak in a multitude of voices through lips not my own. Even when I had sight, to see through a single pair of eyes was a kind of torture, for I knew I could feel in my soul that we with our single visions miss most of the world. We cannot help it. It is our barrier to understanding. Perhaps it is only the poets who truly resent this way of being. No matter; what I do not recall I shall invent .

There are no singular tales. A life in solitude is a life rushing to death. But a blind man will never rush; he but feels his way, as befits an uncertain world. See me, then, as a metaphor made real .

I am the poet Gallan, and my words will live for ever. This is not a boast. It is a curse. My legacy is a carcass in waiting, and it will be picked over until dust devours all there is. And when my last breath is long gone, see how the flesh still moves, see how it flinches .

When I began, I did not imagine finding my final moments here upon an altar, beneath a hovering knife. I did not believe my life was a sacrifice; not to any greater cause, nor as payment into the hands of fame and respect. I did not think any sacrifice was necessary at all .

No one lets dead poets lie in peace. We are like old meat on a crowded dinner table. Now comes the next course to jostle whats left of us, and even the gods despair of ever cleaning up the mess. But there are truths between poets, and we both know well their worth. It is the gristle we chew without end .

Anomandaris. That is a brave title. But consider this: I was not always blind. It is not Anomanders tale alone. My story will not fit into a small box. Indeed, he is perhaps the least of it. A man pushed from behind by many hands will go in but one direction, no matter what he wills .