Fall of Thanes tgw-3

by Brian Ruckley

  The last of the Lannis men had fallen back to a bare knoll outside Kilvale. Only some thirty of them left now. The killing had begun before dawn, and carried on, in fits and starts, all through the grey morning. Most of them had died in the first hour, killed in their tents, beneath their blankets. Since then it had been more hunt than battle, the stragglers cornered in barns and orchards and ditches as they scattered. There had been, Malloc thought, perhaps two hundred of them when the cleansing began; now just these thirty, squatting atop the hillock, behind their wall of shields, their hedge of spears.

  He ducked instinctively as arrows thrummed over his head. He freed his spear and trotted back to the Haig line. There was a great eagerness in him, so powerful it had him trembling, and it would be easy to give in to it, to go howling up the hill and throw himself at these traitors, these craven orphans of a shattered Blood. But he had spent half his life fighting in Gryvan oc Haig’s service, and that long experience still spoke loudly enough-just-to restrain him. The final reckoning would not be long delayed. He could wait.

  More than a hundred Haig warriors were massed at the base of the knoll, and more were constantly arriving, gradually spreading themselves out to encircle this last refuge of the Lannis survivors. Malloc pushed clumsily through the line of archers, ignoring the curses directed at him. He found his companions already resting on a grassy bank, sharing bread and water. One of them threw a cloth to him as he drew near.

  “You’ve Lannis blood on your face.”

  Malloc grunted and wiped his brow and cheeks.

  “And you’ve none, I see,” he said to Garrent, his oldest friend, in the business of war at least. “You been shirking?”

  “They run too fast for me to catch them up,” Garrent said with a grin, shaking his left leg in Malloc’s direction. He had twisted his ankle during the retreat from Kolkyre, and claimed it still hampered him.

  Malloc slumped down beside him and grabbed the bread from his hand.

  “Not running now,” he observed.

  “More fool them. They’ll last no longer than a maiden’s virtue in Tal Dyre once there’s a few more of us.”

  Malloc looked around. A company of Taral-Haig horsemen was thundering up, their hide-armoured horses as menacing as the men who rode them. And behind them another fifty or more Haig spearmen came running, every eye fixed on their cowering quarry above. The archers had a rhythm now, flighting a steady shower of arrows up onto the hilltop. A few would surely find flesh.

  “There’s enough of us now,” Malloc muttered, tearing at the dry, hard bread.

  “Oh, wait for the order, man. It’ll come soon enough.”

  “We’re getting orders now?” Malloc said through a full mouth.

  He had encountered no one who could say where the command for this had come from, whose the decision had been to settle with the Lannis men. Some murmured that Aewult nan Haig himself had issued the order, some that one or other of his Captains had taken it upon themselves. Malloc doubted such explanations. The killing had simply begun, in the night, like a rainstorm breaking of its own volition. Sometimes these things just happened because they had to.

  The need for it had been building ever since word reached the army that the Bloodheir’s messengers had been massacred in Ive. Lannis and Kilkry were already being blamed, around the campfires, for the mystifying defeats inflicted upon the Haig forces by the Black Road at Glasbridge and Kolkyre. Ever since then, it seemed to Malloc, the few Lannis warriors entangled in the Bloodheir’s army had been marked men. The added weight of dead messengers had been too much for what little trust remained.

  The army of the Black Road was not far away, though whether it still merited the title of army was uncertain. Those scouts Malloc had talked to reported thousands of the northerners spread across huge swathes of countryside in loose bands and companies, some of them in good order, some appearing to be leaderless mobs. Whatever their state, they could have attacked at any time in the last few days, but had not. Haig and Gyre thus faced one another in unresolved opposition, neither advancing, neither retreating. Malloc had not realised how agonising the tension had become until this bloody morning had offered itself up as release.

  A single arrow skittered off the helm of a Haig swordsman further forward and spun into the long grass a few arms’ lengths from Malloc.

  “Toothless as old dogs, they are,” Garrent said.

  It was true enough. It had all been too sudden, too fierce for much in the way of resistance. Malloc’s one vague regret was that he had spent all morning struggling through wet fields and marshes in pursuit of fleeing Lannis men while-if the reports he had heard were true-others had found easier prey. Kilvale was full of Kilkry families exiled from their lands and homes by the Black Road’s advance. Some of those who had been forced to take shelter in camps or farms outside the town itself, beyond the protection of Kilvale’s Guard, had felt the force of Haig wrath today as well. Malloc would have liked to be a part of that. Lannis had never been much more than lackey to the arrogant inhabitants of Kolkyre’s Tower of Thrones; if any Blood truly deserved chastisement, humbling, it was Kilkry.

  But he had no complaint. He had killed, and would kill again before the day was out. And once it was all done, the army would be the stronger for it. Cleaner. Unreliable allies-traitorous ones-were worse than no allies at all. There was a healing to be had in this, a making right of so much that had been wrong. It took the edge off Malloc’s shame at his flight-and that of so many other good Haig men-from the battle outside Kolkyre. A great deal had been inexplicably lost that day amidst the terrible, causeless panic that took hold of Aewult’s army. Some of it, some respect, was recovered by this cutting out of the canker from their ranks.

  If anything did trouble him, it was the unfamiliar joy this carnage engendered in him. He had often found excitement in fighting, in ending a life and keeping his own, but this was different. This killing felt as if it somehow completed him, answered a fervent desire he had never before known. That seemed strange to him, but it was too sweet-tasting to concern him overly much. He wanted to drink still more deeply from this well.

  There was a cry from up above. One of the Lannis spearmen fell forward from the shield wall, an arrow in the notch of his shoulder. He slid on his stomach a short way down the grassy slope as the shields closed up behind him. An arm stretched out, scrabbling at his ankle, trying to get a grip to haul him back. He was too heavy, and a further flurry of shafts quickly deterred the man who sought to help him.

  “All be over soon,” Malloc murmured. It was odd that such a thought should stir regret, but it did.

  “The Bloodheir,” said Garrent, suddenly leaping to his feet.

  Malloc rose too. Everyone was stirring, making themselves appear ready and willing. Malloc craned his neck to get a glimpse of Aewult nan Haig.

  The Bloodheir came with a dozen of his mighty Palace Shield, great men clad in metal, bearing pennanted lances, astride massive horses. Malloc smiled. Aewult himself was magnificent, cloak flowing from his shoulders, eyes fixed upon the miserable little crowd of warriors atop the hillock.

  He drew his horse to a halt and bent to talk to someone in the throng that closed about him. Malloc had never been so close to any of his ruling house. To be able to see every line upon the Bloodheir’s brow, the stitching in his great leather gauntlets, renewed his fervour. The urge to loose some wildly adulatory cry, perhaps draw a fragment of that noble attention to himself, was almost irresistible.

  The Bloodheir straightened. He was nodding at something said to him.

  “It’s too late to do anything but finish it now,” Malloc heard him say. “And if it’s to be done, do it well. Make sure none escape.”

  Those words were all it took. They spread through the Haig ranks, repeated by every eager mouth, and men began to move without waiting for any further command. One began to run, then another, then tens, then scores. Archers threw aside their bows, drew knives and rushed forward. All swarming up
the slippery turf incline, all desperate to be in at the end of this, all filled with unreasoning, consuming hatred.

  And Malloc was at the front of it, feeling as strong, as potent, as ever he had in his life. His legs pounded, his heart soared; they both carried him on and up to meet the waiting spears of a dying Blood.

  V

  Taim Narran could feel sweat slick on his back and shoulders beneath his shirt. Exertion made his face burn against the bitter air. Fatigue was building in his thighs. Yet still Orisian came at him. His Thane, less than half his age, battled on and on.

  Taim retreated, a few quick steps back across the training ground, blocking sword blows with his shield as he went. Orisian came after him, on the very borders of control. It was often this way when the two of them fought. The longer the training bouts went on-and Orisian always insisted on extending them, pushing himself to his limits and beyond-the more aggressive the young Thane became, the more violent and unrestrained grew his attacks.

  Taim let Orisian bear down on him, and twisted aside. Orisian went stumbling through and Taim gave him a smack on the side of his head with the flat of his blade as he went. To his credit, Orisian managed to keep his feet, staggering down almost to his knees before whirling about and surging up again.

  The two of them battled back and forth. Servants had swept the training square free of snow, but the ground was still frozen, almost rock-like. Orisian’s knuckles, even his cheek, were grazed from earlier falls. Nothing dimmed his willingness to come forward again and again, but exhaustion was at last blunting the ferocity of his attacks. His shield was drifting low, his feet becoming a touch sluggish.

  Enough, Taim thought. He dropped his own guard just enough to offer temptation. Orisian lunged. Taim sidestepped, and brought his own shield up in a slicing arc. He opened Orisian’s forehead with its rim. Orisian reeled, blood streaking down his face. Taim hooked a foot around the back of his knee, and sent him sprawling.

  “We’re done for today,” Taim said, kicking his Thane’s sword away. “You’re not learning now, only exhausting yourself.”

  Orisian struggled to his feet, wiping blood from his brow.

  “I can carry on,” he said breathlessly. He looked around for his sword.

  “Your mind’s not clear enough,” Taim said. He sheathed his own sword.

  “You told me once I had to fight by instinct, not by thinking.”

  “True enough, but that only works with the right instincts. Anger fouls them up. Fight angry, and you won’t fight long.”

  Orisian looked downcast. “I know. I try.”

  “You do. And for as long as you concentrate and keep calm, you fight well. But something happens. You start fighting something more than just me.”

  Orisian stooped to retrieve his blade. He made a clumsy effort to return it to its scabbard, missing at the first attempt.

  “You must get that wound cleaned and bound,” Taim said.

  “Yes,” murmured Orisian. He grimaced at his Captain. “Did you have to hit me so hard?”

  “Thought it might clear your head. It’s not much more than a touch. It’ll clean up fine.”

  Orisian grunted, and walked slowly off towards the barracks. As Taim watched him go, he felt sorrow for the young man. He could not call it pity, for that was a sentiment Orisian would utterly refuse. Sorrow fitted better, in any case.

  Taim was not certain what it was that came over Orisian when they trained. Some formless fury woke in him. Perhaps he became lost in the punishing rhythm of strike and counter-strike, parry and sidestep, and found himself battling against memories, or fears, or death itself. Perhaps each blow he aimed at Taim’s shield was, for him, aimed rather at the whole array of enemies, and of misfortunes, that had taken his father from him, and Inurian. And Rothe.

  That last death had been the one that finally and fatally weakened the child in Orisian, Taim reflected as he stamped smooth a few of the deeper marks they had gouged into the hard surface of the training ground during their bout. The second shieldman to die in Orisian’s defence, and someone he had been wholly unready to lose. Nothing had been quite the same since then.

  Taim shook the shield free from his left arm and took it towards the armoury. He walked slowly, for he was weary. And now that there were none to see, he allowed himself to limp. His thigh ached. Beneath his leggings, tight bandages covered the puncture marks and the prodigious bruise inflicted by that bone-encrusted Tarbain club. His weariness was not, though, so much of the body as of the mind and spirit.

  Though he hid it meticulously from those around him, Orisian most of all, the days were taking a heavy toll. The fighting, the almost sleepless nights, the pervasive and insidious mood of despairing aggression. It all sapped his strength. And there was the sickening worry for his wife and his daughter, left behind in besieged Kolkyre. He had promised Jaen he would be there at her side when their grandchild was born. It would break his heart, and shame him, to fail in that promise.

  Ranks of shields greeted him as he entered the armoury. They hung from the wall in overlapping rows. To call the place an armoury was overgenerous, in truth. It was little more than a storeroom, and a poorly ordered one at that. The shields might be neatly displayed, but spears were piled lazily and loosely against one wall. There were quivers of arrows in one corner, their flights frayed and broken. Taim hung his shield with the others. He closed the door behind him and made for the barracks.

  What he wanted, with all his heart, was to be with his family, in front of a warming fire, talking of idle and foolish matters. But no matter how fervent that desire, Taim could contain it-much of the time, at least-within a sealed and silent chamber deep within himself. There were other promises that bound him, and even at the cost of a broken heart, he could not turn aside from them. He had pledged his life to the Blood, to the service of its Thane. For Taim that remained the greater part of what gave his life meaning.

  There was a blinding white sun in the sky, unfettered by clouds for the first time in days. But its light seemed more to expose the world than to illuminate it. It sharpened every edge, bared everything beneath its cold wash.

  As Taim walked along Ive’s main street his nostrils were filled with the smell of wet ash. He passed by a long stretch of houses gutted and tumbled by the recent fires. Every detail, every seam and stain of the charred timbers, every smoke scar smearing across the stonework, was clear, precisely delineated by this acute winter light. He could hear an argument somewhere, a man and woman raging at one another. He could hear a baby crying too, off in another direction. In the raw, despairing need of that wail he sensed the expression of something deep. Something of the tune to which the world now danced.

  He found Torcaill at the town’s edge, standing with a dozen of his men. They were watching a band of townsfolk struggling eastwards across a field, leading a pair of mules that bore huge packs.

  “There are scores of them leaving now,” Torcaill muttered. “They think Ive’s finished.”

  “They’re right,” Taim said. “Where are they going?”

  “I don’t think they know that themselves. Most head east, hoping to lose themselves in the mountains or the woods.”

  “They’ll have a hard time of it out there. Bad weather, not enough food.”

  “They will. Worse than hard, a lot of them. But it’s their choice. If they lack the spirit to fight for their town, their Blood, they must bear the consequences.”

  Taim glanced sideways at the younger man. Torcaill’s vehemence was striking, and his eyes as he watched the departing townsfolk gleamed with a cold contempt. That anger that lurked beneath so many surfaces now was there, unforgiving, judging.

  “They want to live,” Taim murmured. “Keep their families, their children, alive. There’s no shame in that. They’ve already seen indisputable proof that we can’t keep the Black Road out of their town. If I wore their clothes, I’d do the same.”

  A flock of birds shot up from a copse beyond the field. They
sprayed out in all directions from the treetops, then veered back together and went arrowing together out of sight into the east.

  “How’s your leg?” Torcaill asked.

  Taim shrugged. “Wound’s not gone bad so far. Any word from the scouts?”

  “Half of them have disappeared,” sighed Torcaill. “Killed somewhere out there, or fled perhaps. As for the rest… there’re Tarbains burning farms half a day west of here. The army you fought on the south road is still there, camped at some village. There’s another, bigger, in the hills to the west. My men saw their fires last night. They could be on us tomorrow, if they choose.”

  Taim nodded. “We’re finished, then. Here, at least. If we stay, we’re done.”

  “Perhaps.” Torcaill’s assent was grudging. He wanted to fight. “Have you talked to Orisian about it?”

  “He knows it as well as we do. He wants to meet with us, all of us, this afternoon. After the oath-taking. I think he’ll tell us then what he means to do.”

  Torcaill pushed forefinger and thumb into his eyes, grinding away the tiredness Taim knew must be lodged there. Nobody was sleeping well.

  “They’re to go ahead with that, then?” the younger man asked heavily. “The oath-taking, I mean?”

  “Why not?” Taim said.

  Torcaill shrugged, but made no reply.

  “Orisian is Thane of our Blood.” Taim turned away, heading back into the town’s heart. “Those who wish to take the oath in his name have the right. The duty.”

  “But we’ve no Oathmen, have we?” Torcaill called after him. “They’re all dead. Or lost.”

  “I’m to do it,” Taim said as he walked, perhaps too softly for the other man to hear. “I’m to wield the knife.”

  The boy was eight years old. Small and nervous. Perhaps more than nervous, for he paled as his gaze settled upon the knife held in his mother’s open palm.

  “In the name of Sirian and Powll, Anvar and Gahan and Tavan and Croesan, the Thanes who have been; of Orisian oc Lannis-Haig, the Thane who is now; and of the Thanes yet to come, I command you all to hear the bloodoath taken,” Taim intoned. The words sat strangely in his mouth. They were ancient, weighty words that only Oathmen should speak. “I am Thane and Blood, past and future, and this life will be bound to mine. I command you all to mark it.”