by Greylady
“I—” he made a sweeping gesture with both hands to include the Overlord and the other half-dozen armoured high-clan lords standing around him, “—we have seen this state of mind take shape, slowly at first and then faster. That is why our departure from Daykin’s realm was more disciplined than it might otherwise have been. We were already well down the road of preparing for such an eventuality.”
“And with more warning,” put in Keo ar’Lerutz, “we might have left the King of Kalitz a memento of his dishonour that he would not soon forget.”
That was unnecessary, even if the words were only a relief of feelings. Bayrd hoped they meant nothing more. Even so, he looked shocked, and didn’t try to hide it. Responding to one dishonourable action with another was not the way he had been brought up. Honesty and the keeping of a sworn word was the Alban way, not this twisting of meanings to suit the way the wind blew.
“You are just an-kailin tleir’ek,” said Lord Serej ar’Diskan. “What can you know of high matters?”
Bayrd gave the man a sharp look, not liking the patronizing sound of his words. “My lord,” he said carefully, “I may be just a low-clan Captain-of-One-Hundred, but I am kailin for all that. I know what honour is. And truth. And the keeping of oaths.”
He half-expected to be challenged for what could easily be considered an slur – but if an Alban warrior could not speak his mind on such matters to an Alban clan-lord in the hope of a fair hearing, then there was no longer any point to common courtesy. Ar’Diskan stared at him for several seconds while Bayrd braced himself for what might follow; then relaxed as the clan-lord merely grunted, half-turned to Lord Albanak and rolled his eyes expressively skyward as if suggesting What did you expect from this one?
“You may wish to appoint yourself our conscience, Bayrd-eir,” said Albanak, and Bayrd hoped that his use of the enhanced honorific wasn’t accidental. “Just don’t be so obtrusive about it. I mentioned your high horse before, but it seems you have an over-literal mind. I meant more than just dismount.”
“I have my father’s training.”
“A good man. But your faults aren’t his. He never thought too much. You do.”
Bayrd stifled a groan as the same old phrase came trotting out again. “You aren’t the first to say that, Lord.”
“I know,” said Albanak. “And I won’t be the last.” Then he gave Bayrd an odd, sympathetic glance, one suggesting that when he had first greeted the younger man by name, he had known it without needing to ask. And knew much more than just the name, too.
“Thinking too much,” the Overlord said quietly, “is only a fault when it’s obvious, Bayrd-an.” No honorific this time. It seemed his promotion had been brief, or an accident after all. “It makes those who seldom think at all feel uneasy. So… Be more circumspect. And tell me what you were thinking.” Albanak looked from side to side at the faces of his other lords, and nodded at whatever it was he saw there.
Bayrd could see their faces too, and the expressions of these powerful men were such that he could easily have wished himself elsewhere. Some were irritated by the presumption of going over their heads to ask the opinion of a low-clan kailin, and others seemed more amused that their overlord thought he might say anything of value. It was not that the horse should sing well or badly, but that it should sing at all. Only Gyras ar’Dakkur seemed interested in more than his curiosity value, and that might have been because he was the only clan-lord present able to control what his own features revealed to the world at large. It was a useful art, and Bayrd mentally determined to learn it – if he survived the next five minutes or so.
Though such extreme reactions were uncommon, it was also not entirely unheard-of for an angry high-clan lord to wrench longsword from scabbard and cut down the source of his anger, whether enemy or peasant or just inopportune subordinate. Bayrd had seen it done, just once; but the length of time it had taken to wash spatters of blood out of his clothing had driven the lesson home.
Don’t annoy a clan-lord, and if you do, be prepared to duck – or lose your head.
“I repeat what I said before, Lord. This landing was no stroke of good fortune. We were heading for this beach, or at least a shore along this same coastline, in this same…domain, lordship, whatever.”
“Province,” said Albanak. “The province of Prytenon, ruled by one Guelerd, or Gelert as they pronounce it here. Correct so far, ar’Talvlyn. Continue.”
“This Gue–, Gelert, is not just expecting us to somehow arrive on the threshold of his province. He invited us.”
“Where in the Nine Hot Hells did you hear that?” snapped Serej ar’Diskan, his black moustache bristling with fury. Even though such suspicion might have been justified – and it was not, Albanak’s approval had made that plain enough – such harshness was impolite even to an outlander. To another Alban, and regardless of any difference in rank, it was boorish to the point of insult – and with ar’Diskan’s earlier impudence still very much in mind Bayrd had to make a conscious effort to keep his hand away from the hilt of one sword or the other. His ears went hot when he realized that Albanak-arluth and Gyras ar’Dakkur had seen the whole play of emotion across his face, and had almost certainly noticed the involuntary twitch of his right hand before he brought it under control. Yes indeed: Lord ar’Dakkur’s skill of controlling his expression was something he should learn, as soon as he was able…
“I did not hear it, my lords,” he said slowly, addressing the gathering in general rather than Serej so that he could persuade himself that he was not making a direct response to the crudely-worded question. “I merely put together what I saw, and drew my own conclusions. Gelert is at war, or planning a war, and wants warriors he can trust. Not those who might change their allegiance – which has to be common here, or it wouldn’t have concerned him so much.”
“Well done!” Albanak laughed aloud and struck his gauntleted hands together twice, in what for him was a transport of delight. “Well done indeed.” Again he glanced at the faces of his lords. “Gentlemen, if this is what thinking too much will do, then I warrant we can allow a deal more of it. Bayrd-eir, you’re too clever to lead only a hundred men. Lead a Thousand; you are now kailin-eir myl’ek, by my command.”
Bayrd blinked, and managed to prevent a large, stupid grin of delight from spreading all over his face. Not just that someone had finally heard what he might have to say, but that of all people it had been the Overlord himself. If this was how one earned promotion off the field of battle, then he felt certain he could tolerate the strain. Lordship and the elevation of clan ar’Talvlyn became suddenly more than just an idle dream. This time when he knelt and lowered his forehead to the ground between his hands in formal First Obeisance and genuine deep gratitude, the Overlord accepted it with good grace.
“Up,” said Albanak after a few seconds. “You’re right, of course. The lords of this land have always treated war as a sporting event, whether to extend their domains or their herds or to gain influence over one another. They buy and sell the players – the lesser warriors not bound by house-allegiance – in the same way that the Yuvain and the Kalitzak trade in riders for their racing-stables. Gelert has decided to change that. He wants to bring the entire country together under one ruler. Himself. And he wants us to help him do it.”
“You don’t trust him, Lord.”
“Why do you say so?”
Bayrd gestured at the rampart slowly rising along the landward side of the beach. It may have been no more than a steep bank of sand from the ditch dug to its landward side, but it was well packed down, mixed with shingle and capped with a wooden palisade of timbers ripped from such ships as could spare them. More than anything else it was well sited: above anything but the highest tidemark, and following the first line of dunes so that they added to its strength.
“That tells me,” he said. “He expects only the mercenary army he hired. The presence of their families might suggest a permanence of occupation enough to give him second thoughts. He
might try to force us out. And…” Bayrd shrugged, a movement exaggerated by his armoured shoulders. “And you don’t trust him anyway.”
“Are you trying for a further promotion?” Before Bayrd could answer, Albanak waved the reply to silence. “Never mind. Though I find myself wondering why thinking too much has become such a disparaging phrase. It seems more useful than that…”
The Overlord dropped that train of thought and stood up, signalling to one of the retainers who stood just out of earshot of the private high-clan conversation. “Summon all the clan-lords not already here,” he said as the warrior went to one knee and awaited orders. “Have them follow my banner to—” he looked thoughtfully inland, then picked a spot and pointed, “—to there. I have something to say. Something important.”
He might have received unexpected betterment of his position, but Bayrd ar’Talvlyn learned at once that unless the Overlord had invited him directly, which he had not, he was not entitled to remain in the company of clan-lords of whatever rank. Lord ar’Diskan pointed that out quite bluntly once the protection of the Overlord’s banner moved away, dismissing him with excessive relish and hard words spoken in a low voice no-one else could hear.
He planted himself in front of Bayrd and stood there, smiling unpleasantly and toying with his moustache until the younger kailin gave him a proper salute and led his horse away, then hurried off to join the rest of the nobility and gentry at the new site of Albanak-arluth’s banner.
His departure was fortunate, in that it saved him from noticing the thoughtful stare that Bayrd directed at his retreating back. Clan ar’Diskan was still far above clan ar’Talvlyn – but less so now than it had been an hour ago. And patience was a well-known trait of all the ar’Talvlyns, patience that could be cuddled close and kept warm for years at a time if need be. Bayrd had waited before. He could wait again; and if need be his children – once he had fathered them – could wait after him. One day the right time would come. What that time might be, and what it would be right for, remained to be seen. That was the virtue of patience.
Other warriors began to gather, those not busy with other tasks or of sufficient status to lay their duties aside for a while, and with them came the old people, the wives, the consorts, then children – all who could spare a few moments to hear what their Overlord had to say. Rumour of something afoot had raced through the embryo camp, moving among the clans even faster than Albanak’s messenger. Bayrd sat easily in Yarak’s saddle, feet kicked free of the stirrup-irons and one knee crooked around the pommel, watching them. Now and then he saw familiar faces, heard an exchange of friendly words or a speculation about what was happening.
Though he knew, or at least guessed, Bayrd said nothing of it. That would have been betrayal of a confidence, and dishonourable. Instead he waited with the rest, and thought again about what had happened to the arrow. Skarpeya would have laughed had he been there to see it. The wizard had given every evidence of having a sense of humour – another thing about him which had surprised Bayrd. He had never associated laughter and sorcery before. Skarpeya might also have been able to tell him what had happened, why it had happened, and how to control it, but Skarpeya was in Kalitzim and he was here, on a beach in Prytenon, wondering.
Clad in their Colour-Robes of green and white, a small group of kailinin rode past; and though one or two inclined their heads in greeting, most disregarded his presence. It was a typical response from his ex-in-laws. He nodded distantly, sufficiently lost in his own thoughts not to take offence. Once Bayrd was widowed, clan ar’Doren had seemed content enough to scatter their relationship to clan ar’Talvlyn along with their sister Mahaut’s ashes. Even old Esak’s death had done nothing to close the rift, and if that was how they felt about it, well and good.
He was, and had always been, on better terms with his first wife’s line. Lorey ar’Harik was still a friend. She had said herself that while their marriage had been a mistake, which it had, the intention behind it – closer ties between two low-clan families for mutual advantage and advancement – had worked. At least the ties were still there, the advantage had worked, and if today was an indication, the advancement was beginning at last. Clan ar’Harik should be pleased.
Bayrd smiled nastily. Even if the next step up might have to be on Serej ar’Diskan’s face, the prospect had a certain appeal. He listened briefly to what the Lord Albanak was saying, then ignored the rest. He had heard it before. Indeed, from the few words he had just caught, he had said some of it himself. But when Albanak raised both hands above his head and Bayrd saw what he carried there, he sat up very straight and started to pay attention.
It was a sword.
This sword was not the one Albanak-arluth usually wore at his hip. That still hung there, an ornate hilt in an ornate scabbard, and it was a taiken longsword, modern – allowing for the hundred years since it was forged – straight and double-edged, with an elegant long taper to the point. The sword in his hands was far older. It was plain steel: unadorned, unpolished, still straight – but with only a single edge and a sharply angled point whetted bright and glinting against the dull grey metal. Its hilt was severely plain, a safe place to grip the blade and nothing more, and there was no guard. This weapon had been made for cutting, not for fighting. There was no need of a guard.
The length of metal gave an impression of stark utility: a cleaver, something created for no other purpose than cutting flesh. Nowadays a sword doubled as both weapon and adornment for the home and the belt of the warrior who owned it. Not that Albanak owned this sword. He held it in trust for past and future generations. Together with his very name, which was no name of his own but the title of his rank, it had been the symbol of the Overlord of Alba for longer than even the Keepers of Years could remember.
Its name was Greylady.
Albanak brought the sword down in a lazy sweep across the ground between his feet. The cut was purely symbolic, without any real force, but Greylady’s edge parted the matted grass and bracken and the packed sand beneath as though they had not been there. In the sudden stillness as everyone present realized what he intended to do, the sound of three more cuts was loud enough even for Bayrd to hear, half a bowshot away. Albanak stooped, took a handful of grass, twisted once and pulled. The square of dirt beneath it lifted neatly away like the head of a defeated enemy, and like a severed head, he drove
Greylady’s point into the centre of the square and held it up so that all could see.
“Here is the Land, and all that grows upon the Land, taken by the sword and held by the sword! Let any who claim otherwise defend it by the sword!”
It was an old, old ceremony, and Bayrd wondered what Lord Gelert of Prytenon would say had he been here to see it, because with those four token cuts he was no longer Lord of anything, save by the sufferance of Albanak. It now only remained to do in reality what had been done in ritual.
Albanak-arluth wiped the ancient blade with a cloth of white linen and handed it back to one of his retainers, undid his helmet and handed that back as well. Then he stood with arms folded, and looked in silence at his assembled lords and warriors. There had been no dissenting voice at what he had done, no outcry that it was a dishonourable act to enter a country by false declaration of intent.
Not even Bayrd ar’Talvlyn said anything, though he suspected that some of the high-clan lords around Albanak were expecting to hear both him and others with his turn of mind. But this was a different matter than that concerning the King of Kalitz. No oaths of fealty or service had been given or exchanged, no contracts had been signed, and he doubted that there had been any meeting face to face between Albanak and Gelert, or even between their higher lords. The Prytenek had intended to cheat his own compatriots, and had been cheated in his turn. It had long been known that all was fair in love and war – or the business equivalents of both.
“We were a banished people,” said Albanak at last, his voice not loud but pitched to carry well. “We left our own lands long ago, enticed by
the promise of silver and a new dwelling-place. We took the silver and the place to live, and did honest duty in exchange. Then the silver was withheld, and the land was taken back, and we were cast upon the storm. But our skills remain: with horse, with sword, with bow. With those skills we will hold this new land, and we will not be banished again!”
He looked slowly from side to side, at low-clan and at high, at men and women and children, and seemed satisfied with whatever it was he saw there. “There can be no going back. There will be no going back. Burn the ships.”
3. - Challenge
The ships burned. Long banners of dirty smoke trailed low over the water, stinging the eyes if the wind shifted, and filling the air with a reek of melting pitch and scorching timber that was nothing like the homely smell of firewood. Every now and again a sail would ignite with a surprising bright flash of yellow flame, but for the most part the ships, stripped of everything that could conceivably be useful, charred slowly to the waterline, then wallowed, hissed steam, and sank.
Bayrd ar’Talvlyn sat cross-legged at the edge of the beach and watched them burn, coughing occasionally when a drift of smoke caught at his throat. He had taken his armour off again, since there was nothing that had to be done at once, and the sun was warm and pleasant when the clouds of smoke didn’t obscure it.
Mevn ar’Dru knelt behind him, fussing quietly under her breath as she tried to work the knots out of his hair. By contrast with the fire and destruction along the beach, their little scene looked improbably domestic, though every now and then Bayrd winced and hissed between his teeth as a particular tangle refused to give way to her fingers without some force being applied. He didn’t mind overmuch about those occasional small stabs of discomfort; like Mevn’s constant muttering of annoyance – which no matter how it sounded, had nothing to do with the state of his warrior’s braid – they were something else to think about. Something besides burning arrows and burning ships, the loss of any chance to retire in good order if events turned against them, and the crooked reasoning which had prompted Albanak-arluth to issue such an order.
