The Plains of Kallanash (32 page)

She saw some strong emotion cross his face as she spoke, but she couldn’t read it. Was he angry? No, it was something else, but she couldn’t tell what. Shock, perhaps. Dismay, maybe. But then the mask returned and he left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

She couldn’t breathe. Where had all that come from? So much rage, and it wasn’t really his fault, he was caught up in this against his will, just as she was. He had his own grief, his own loneliness.

She sat down again suddenly, for she was shaking and her legs had no strength in them. Misery washed over her like a rainstorm, and she shed a few tears. Why had the Gods sent her to this desperate place? Why couldn’t they have left her with Hurst and her baby, to live out her days in quiet happiness? Hurst, who had loved her for so long, yet she’d never appreciated him, never
loved
him until now. What had she done to deserve this punishment?

No point thinking about the past. This was the life she had to deal with now, however difficult. She needed to cope with the Warlord as best she could, to satisfy his whims, keep him content. That was stupid, raging at him that way.

Now she would be sent back to Bulraney, she supposed. Would that be worse? At least Bulraney, for all his crudeness, would be simpler to deal with. He would tell her straightforwardly what he wanted, and she would be required to do it. There would be no skirting round the issues, and he wouldn’t care at all whether she was frightened of him or if she enjoyed what she had to do. It would be unpleasant, of course, but he wouldn’t expect anything from her but the obvious. The Warlord was just too complicated; she had no idea how to keep him happy.

~~~

That night there was a feast, with a dozen or more different meats roasted on spits, and strange vegetables and fruits. The ale flowed freely for once and there was wine, too, for the select few, although Mia thought it a sour kind of wine, as if it had been kept too long. Dethin said nothing to her unrelated to the food and drink, in fact he said very little altogether, but sometimes she caught him watching her, his face expressionless and blank. Everyone else got louder and drunker and merrier, while he sat stony-faced. Eventually he said, “I’m going to bed now, but there’s no need for you to leave. Stay and enjoy yourself.”

After he had gone, there was music and singing and even dancing, but no one tried to get Mia involved. They tiptoed round her as if she was fenced off from the rest of them. Occasionally, when some new delicacy emerged from the kitchen, it would be offered to her first, but otherwise she was left alone and as soon as she decently could, she left. He was asleep when she reached the bedroom, or at least he was lying, eyes closed, as if asleep, and didn’t stir as she undressed and got into bed.

For three days after that she waited to be told that she was being sent away, back to Bulraney or perhaps, if she were lucky, to another Warlord or Commander. That was the best she could hope for. He was unfailingly polite to her, in his dour way, when he had to speak to her, but that was seldom, and he didn’t touch her, even in bed. Each night, he simply undressed and lay down, turning away from her, and slept.

But then one night she woke to find him gone from the bed. She wasn’t sure what had woken her, perhaps a noise or simply the fact that he was not there, but she was fully awake and aware of something wrong, although she couldn’t say what. The moon was up, and although it was past full, there was still enough light to see him, sitting hunched up on the box by the window, his arms around his knees, head down, wrapped in his cloak.

She got up and put her own cloak around her, to cover her nakedness, and went across to him.

“Are you all right? Do you need anything? Something to drink?”

He shook his head, not looking at her.

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

He lifted his head then, but he still didn’t look her in the eye. “I don’t know what to do.” There was something, some tone in his voice, that she’d never heard before. “I can’t give you back the life you’ve lost. I can’t give you a baby. I can’t give you the happiness and freedom you crave. But the one thing I can do, the one thing that’s within my power, is not to force you into sex against your will. And it’s driving me insane. I don’t think I can lie with you every night and not touch you.”

Mia was astonished. “I thought you would send me back to Bulraney and find yourself someone more
– compliant.”

“I’ll
never
do that!” he said fiercely, turning to her, and she was surprised at the anger in his eyes. “Bulraney’s an animal, you deserve better than that. But if I can’t send you away, and I can’t go away myself…”

“I could sleep on the floor again…” she began hesitantly. “Would that help?”

“I don’t know,” he said miserably. “I don’t know.”

She was silent for a moment. He had turned away from her again, his chin resting on his knees. She was perplexed by him, for had he not forced her to sleep with him? Yet now he was drawing back from that. He seemed to be offering her a choice, and yet she knew there was really no choice at all. How complicated he was!

“Dethin,” she began, “when you first came here, you must have felt angry about it. Resentful, maybe, or rebellious. You were forced to fight, whether you wanted to or not. But you accepted that, didn’t you?”

He looked sideways at her for a moment, then he nodded once.

“Well, I’ve accepted what I have to do, too. We’ve both been torn away from the safe, familiar world and brought here unwillingly, but we’ve both come to terms with our roles here. Yours is to wage war, and mine is to share your bed. I may rant about it sometimes, but I won’t fight it.”

“But you’re afraid of me.”

“Only now and then, because I don’t understand your moods yet. But you’ve never hurt me, or mistreated me in any way.” Not like Bulraney and his henchmen, with their crudeness. And not like Jonnor – it pained her to admit it, but he hadn’t behaved well towards her. And that led her to Hurst, and a fresh burst of grief – Hurst, who was more than just a husband to her. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to speak calmly. “I know you don’t like to talk about yourself,” she went on, “but it would be easier if I knew you better. Maybe in time we can even be friends?”

“Friends?” He seemed bewildered by the very idea.

“Yes – like a husband and wife. Talking to each other. Sharing a life, not just a bed.”

He was silent for so long that she began to wonder if she should creep back to bed and leave him to his solitary brooding. But then he sat more upright, and in one motion let his knees fall so that he was sitting cross-legged.

“I was sixteen,” he said, staring straight ahead, almost as if he were talking to himself. “I was very full of myself then, made a Higher when no one expected it of me, and a year of skirmishing under my belt. When I went to the Ring for my first winter quiet as an adult, I was up for any sort of mischief. There were five or six of us, showing off, trying to outdo each other. One of us – it wasn’t even me, I don’t think – had the idea of sneaking into one of the Women’s Houses. There was a woman there – a year or two older than me – who promised me a kiss if I could do it. Well, it was a challenge, and at that age – you don’t think much. So we told her when, and we climbed over the wall, and went through the gardens, and there she was. And I got my kiss. But she must have told someone, because suddenly the place was full of guards. We ran and the others got away, I think, but I was caught.”

His had kept his voice even, but suddenly it cracked very slightly. In the moon’s dull glow, she saw the emotion on his face as he struggled to compose himself. He took a deep breath.

“I don’t remember everything they did to me. Some foul drink that made me gibber uncontrollably. A kind of smoke in the room – I was sick, over and over. They forced me to eat, and it just came straight back up. Waking me up whenever I fell asleep. And the flogging – I remember that. Well, most of it. The next thing I knew, I was in the tunnel. And that was it.”

“For a
kiss
?” she said, appalled.

“Yes
– the only one I’ve ever had. But at least I know what I did, unlike you,” he said gently, turning to look at her. “I knew it was wrong. I just – didn’t expect such a permanent punishment.”

“Dethin
– that’s
terrible
!”

“Crannor,” he said, and there was the faintest hint of a smile. “My name is Crannor.”

She smiled back at him, she couldn’t help it. He was so different like this, so human and vulnerable. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be inscrutable again, or angry, and all her fear of him would return in full, but tonight he was just a man who needed comforting. On impulse she leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth. He froze, his lips rigid under hers, but gradually he relaxed and let her kiss him. When she pulled away, he looked stunned.

“Crannor –
let’s go to bed.”

The battle was over, the dead and injured collected and the warriors were setting out for home before the sun had even reached its zenith. Hurst had seen one or two battles drag on until all light was gone, and skirmishes could sometimes last for days, so the quick finish was a good result. Again the lack of organisation was evident, for each Captain simply gathered up his own men and set out for home when he wished, making his way by the shortest route.

Ainsley’s group was in high spirits. They had not lost a single man, had only two relatively minor injuries and had acquired eight new horses. They headed east with half the group mounted, singing as they went, with the fort still smoking behind them. Bulraney had disappeared, but Hurst saw the Warlord still riding tirelessly up and down, helping out where needed. He was encouraging others to find riderless horses, Hurst saw, something not usually possible after a battle but most of the Karningers were currently preoccupied with the fires.

They marched for several hours, taking turns with the horses, although there were some who couldn’t ride at all. Hurst chose to walk, for he was still full of energy. As the sun dropped down the sky, the group split up, some going on to the compound and the rest making camp for the night. It was something of a post-battle tradition, Ainsley told them.

“A few can’t wait to get back and get started on the ale and women, but most of us like to unwind out in the open. You know, talk through what happened, be glad we’re still alive, that sort of thing.” He nodded towards Trimon. “That was some mighty shooting. I’ll be losing him to Tersior, I expect.”

“Tersior?”

“Archery Captain. There are three Sword Captains, one Staves, one Archery. Anyone with any skill with a bow goes to Tersior, and your friend is certainly skilled. Do you think it would be beneath him to pin a few hares for our supper? Or a moundrat?”

Trimon graciously agreed to it, and took his bow out into the waving grasses some distance away. For a long time he simply stood motionless, then suddenly fired off five arrows in quick succession, producing three hares and two plump moundrats. Hurst, Gantor and Walst cut turf to make a firepit, gathered brushwood, started the fire, skinned and gutted the meat and hung it over the flames, while the rest of the group sat about chatting.

While the meat cooked, Hurst lay flat on the ground listening to the fat dripping from the moundrats sizzling into the flames, gazing up at the vast face of the moon as it dipped down the sky. By the time they ate, it was almost gone, and darkness was creeping across the plains, the fire lighting their faces with a red glow.

Someone lifted his voice in song, and several others joined in. Then a different song, and another, more mournful, a lament for the dead. Hurst listened in silence, not knowing the words, but respectful of the sentiment. After that, gradually the talk died away, and one by one they lay down to sleep.

Hurst sat unmoving for a while, then, when it seemed as if everyone was asleep, he got up and moved outside the circle of bodies around the fire, and crouched down, looking to the west. But he was not alone.

“Not thinking of vanishing, my friend?” Ainsley said quietly, crouching down beside him.

Hurst laughed and shook his head. “With my friends asleep over there? I don’t think so. But the habit of leaving one man on watch is hard to break.”

“They never come after us, you know. Not immediately, anyway.”

“Never before, perhaps. But we burned their fort today. They won’t forget that.” For a while they were silent, unmoving, watching and listening for the telltale signs of pursuit - the drumming of distant hooves, dust clouding the stars, a twig cracking, a nightbird’s alarm call. But there was nothing.

Hurst stood up. “So, are you going to say what you came to say?”

Ainsley stood up too. “I wanted to warn you.” He kept his voice low. “I don’t know who you are or where you come from or what you want from us, but you did all right for us today, and I respect that. You fought beside us, and that makes you one of us. But Bulraney doesn’t like Skirmishers. Lucky for you he doesn’t recognise a Karningholder sword or the insignia on your chest, and I don’t suppose he’s noticed that you keep your gloves on all the time, but he knows there’s something different about you. He’ll keep you close while he doesn’t know what you are, but if he suspects… be careful, that’s all. If you need to vanish in a hurry, let me know and I’ll organise a distraction. On the northern side of the outer wall, just above the fuel store, there’s a rope ladder you can use for a quick escape. You’ll not be seen at night.”

“Thank you, but if I leave it will be through one of the main gates in daylight.”

“
If
you leave? You’re planning to stay then?”

“For a while, anyway. But thanks for the advice. How do you manage? For you’re a Skirmisher yourself, aren’t you?”

“A lot of the Captains are, actually. Not so much here, but the other Sections. Most of the men we get are plough boys and apprentice millers and woodsmen and the like, so anyone with any training rises quickly. But it isn’t politic to make too much of it. Especially with Bulraney.”

“I understand you,” Hurst said.

~~~

There was a brief ceremony to lay the dead to rest. There was no formal religion followed, but most people had been brought up in the way of the Nine, and there was a need, even without any deep belief, for some ritual at such a time. The earth was too hard to dig, and fuel too scarce to use for burning, so those who died were left out in the open for scavengers to pick clean. A long procession carried the bodies about a mile away from the compound, and set them out in a long line on the ground. Clothes and especially battle gear were too valuable to be abandoned, so they were stripped and wrapped in old blankets. A large flagpole marked the spot. There was no formality. Everyone stood around in a big circle and anyone who wanted could speak. After that, they filed back to the compound in silence.

By contrast, the celebrations went on for days. There was feasting and drinking each night which dragged on noisily almost until dawn, then a quiet time when most men slept. In the afternoons they rose groggily and started on the ale all over again, and long queues formed for the women. Walst joined the line of men sitting sharing flasks of ale and singing lustily on the stairs to the women’s rooms, but he returned thoughtful.

“The one I saw was exhausted, so I just sat with her for a while, and left her the flask. But she couldn’t tell me anything about Mia or the Companions. Everyone changes their name when they arrive, apparently.”

“That’s going to make things tricky,” Gantor murmured.

“There’s something else,” Walst said, eyeing Hurst warily. “I asked about pregnant women, where they go, and she just said there aren’t any. But that can’t be right, can it?”

“I suppose they take something, herbs of some sort, to prevent conception,” Hurst shrugged. “But Mia must be six or seven months along by now. They must have
some
way to cope with that.”

It was Ainsley who revealed the dreadful truth, when Hurst asked very casually where all the women with babies lived.

“No babies here,” Ainsley said cheerfully. “It’s the poison from the mark – it dries the women up inside. So no babies. Not ever.”

“And a good thing too,” someone said, and several of the men laughed.

“What if one was pregnant already?” Hurst said, but he felt sick inside, knowing the answer that was coming.

“Oh, she’d lose it,” Ainsley said. “It’s better that way
– this is no place for children.”

Hurst was too stricken to ask any further, so it was Gantor who said, “So what happens to the women? They don’t fight, do they?”

“They’re all whores,” one said.

“That’s all they’re good for,” said another, and they laughed again, passing round the ale, inspired to tales of their own exploits in bed.

Hurst staggered outside, and made his way up the steps to the wall, where he leaned as if drunk, his head down. Gantor found him there just as the half moon was rising.

“We’ll find her,” Gantor said.

“Yes, but what state will she be in?”

“Mia’s tougher than she appears,” Gantor said firmly. “She may look like a delicate little flower, but she’s practical. She’ll survive.”

“And how are we ever going to track her down? Even the name is gone. This is hopeless, Gantor. We shouldn’t have come. I was better off thinking her dead.”

“Don’t ever say that! We have time, now
; we’ve been accepted here, so we can investigate quietly. Even with different names, four of them arrived here together, four women, not that long ago. Someone will remember that. We’ll find her. Don’t give up!”

~~~

Hurst and his friends had no heart for the relentless drinking and womanising, so the first morning saw them out training with the few other men who had stayed relatively sober. Hurst, Walst and Gantor sparred with practice swords while Trimon went off to the archery targets. Hurst noticed a growing crowd gathering at the far end of the compound, and increasing amounts of cheering, but thought nothing of it, taking it for no more than an admiring audience impressed by Trimon’s prowess. He was used to it, and saw no need to investigate.

So they were all astounded when Trimon came running over to them a short while later, grinning from ear to ear, with a small dark man in tow.

“You’ll never guess what!” Trimon shouted across as soon as he was within earshot. “I’ve been promoted! I’m a Captain.” And with an even bigger grin aimed at Hurst, he added, “You have to call me Sir, now.”

Hurst burst out laughing and Gantor clapped Trimon enthusiastically on the back, but Walst looked stunned. “How the fuck did you wangle that, you bastard? Gods! Call you Sir? You have to be joking! What did you do?”

“I’m afraid that was my fault,” the dark man said. “I’ve been Archery Captain for a while now, but I’ve always hated it. I’ve been waiting for someone better than me to come along. I’m afraid I tricked your friend here into a challenge.”

“I was just popping the target,” Trimon went on, “you know, routine stuff, and Tersior here was doing the same at the next one. So he said, ‘How about a challenge?’ Well, I just assumed he meant a quick competition type of thing, but it’s a bit more formal than that, apparently. The winner gets to be Captain.”

“Fucking Vortices!” Walst said. “So how do I get to be a Captain? Who do I challenge? Not Archery – no one could outshoot Trimon – but there must be someone I can challenge with a sword, right?”

Tersior laughed. “Well, you’re ambitious and no mistake! If you really want to stir things up, you can challenge Bulraney to be Commander, but
– well, that’s not the way things are normally done. It’s customary to work your way up. There are three Sword Captains, and Delnor – let me see, that’s him over there, with the red hair - he’s your first target. He’s Third Sword Captain. When you beat him, you can challenge the Second – that’s Ainsley, you know him, and Heddizan’s the First. He’s not around yet, still sleeping off the ale, I expect. Then you could challenge Bulraney, if you’re brave enough. But listen – a word of advice. You’re only just out of the tunnel, a stranger here. Don’t jump in with challenges straight away. If Bulraney thinks you’re too big for your boots, he’ll send you off to Supplies for a spell and you don’t want that. I brought the challenge to Trimon because I could see he was way better than me, but you need to get to know your man before you start challenging. Besides – it’s not that great being a Captain. Bulraney’s tough to work for.”

“Noted,” Walst said. “Hmm, Delnor, eh…?”

~~~

Hurst was amused by the single-minded way Walst set about his self-appointed task. He didn’t approach Delnor himself, but he worked out who his men were and took every opportunity to get to know them
– sparring with them during training, sharing ale with them in the evenings, queueing up with them to visit the women. So when the time came for them to be brought before Bulraney to be formally assigned, it seemed perfectly natural that he should ask to join Delnor. Trimon, of course, now had his own group, and Hurst and Gantor both ended up with Ainsley. There was a rather tight-lipped discussion between Ainsley and Heddizan, who thought the Sword captains should take one of the newcomers apiece, but Ainsley traded four of his best men in exchange, to Hurst’s amusement, and the matter was settled.

As the days passed, Hurst quickly realised that Ainsley had spoken the truth
– there were few men there with any skill in arms. There were close to one hundred warriors in all under the five Captains, and some ten of them showed signs of proper training, and perhaps another ten had acquired a degree of competence, but the rest were virtually unskilled. In addition, there were about twenty-five men nominally in training, and some of these were promoted to fill gaps left by those who died or were injured during the battle, but they showed no greater ability than the rest.

Every morning was set aside for training, but it wasn’t compulsory and it was left to the individual Captains to supervise their own men, with whatever degree of encouragement they chose. Ainsley tried to give some instruction to the less experienced in his group, but Heddizan and Delnor practised with a few chosen friends and left the rest to their own devices. Gronnash, the Staves Captain, whose men employed a wide array of fearsome weaponry, not just staves, rarely appeared at all. So once his own training session was over each day, Hurst gathered together a few of the more willing of those in training, to give them at least some basic skills.