Godless World 1 - Winterbirth

by Brian Ruckley

  'Time to go, then,' said Orisian. 'It will be a cold ride back to Kolglas.'

  Rothe smiled. 'Just as well that fire and food await us on the way.'

  They descended the spiralling stairway and emerged on to a wide, cobbled courtyard. By the gatehouse on the far side, grooms held three horses that blew out clouds of steaming breath into the morning air. Kylane, Orisian's second shieldman, was meticulously checking the horses' hoofs, oblivious of any offence the implied lack of faith might cause to the grooms. Orisian's uncle, the Thane Croesan oc Lannis-Haig, stood close by.

  Croesan took Orisian's hand in his. He was more than a head taller than the youth and grinned down at him.

  'Two weeks is too short a visit, Orisian.'

  'I'd gladly stay, but I must be back at Kolglas for Winterbirth. My father should be out of his sickbed soon.'

  Croesan's smile faltered for a moment and he nodded.

  'Doom and gloom are deep-rooted in my brother's guts. Still, Winterbirth may lift his mood. In any case, do not let Kennet's ills cloud the festival for you, Orisian.'

  'I won't,' Orisian said, knowing that it was a promise he might not be able to keep.

  Croesan clapped him on the back. 'Good. And tell him to visit us soon. It might light a fire under him to see how things are changing here.'

  'I will tell him. Where's Naradin?'

  The question brought a broad grin back to Croesan's face in an instant, and the grand and grave Thane of the Blood was nothing but a proud father and grandfather.

  'He will be here in a moment. He told me to keep you here until they come, to make sure my grandson has the chance to say farewell.'

  'Well, I am glad we found him his boar,' Orisian smiled. 'I hope the baby appreciates it.'

  'Indeed. Naradin will bore the boy with tales of its killing when he's old enough to understand, I'm sure. He'll grow up thinking you and Naradin great heroes, and the finest hunters the Glas valley has ever seen.'

  The thought made Orisian laugh. 'He'll be disappointed, then, if he ever sees me at the hunt.'

  Croesan shrugged. 'Don't be so sure. By the time he's old enough to know the difference, you'll be a match for most of my huntsmen. Anyway, you'll return for the child's Naming, since you were here for the birth?'

  'If I can,' said Orisian, and meant it sincerely. The Naming of an infant destined one day to be Thane was an event that would embody all the history, all the bonds that made the Lannis Blood what it was. Nothing could more strongly signify a long history and a hopeful future, and after the depredations of the Heart Fever and the sufferings of his father, Orisian was learning to value both of those.

  Naradin and his wife Eilan emerged from the keep. The Bloodheir was carrying his baby son in his arms, and walked with almost comical care and precision. He had not yet learned how to relax around a life that seemed so fragile.

  Croesan leaned close to Orisian and murmured conspiratorially, 'Can you believe they have made me a grandfather, Orisian? A grandfather!'

  'I can hardly believe Naradin is a father, let alone you a grandfather,' smiled Orisian. That, he reflected, was a half-truth, though an innocent one. Naradin had, for as long as he could remember, seemed ready and hungry for fatherhood. Nothing less was expected of one who bore the future of the Blood upon his shoulders.

  Eilan embraced Orisian. She was a beautiful woman, but it was for her gentle and generous spirit that he loved her; and for the way those attributes reminded him of his own mother.

  'Journey well, Orisian,' she murmured in his ear. 'Take my love to your sister.'

  Naradin inclined the baby towards Orisian.

  'Now, little one,' the Bloodheir said, 'say goodbye to Orisian.'

  The tiny face gazed blankly out from the nest of thick blankets, lips working moistly and soundlessly. A pink tongue gestured vaguely in Orisian's direction.

  'There,' said Naradin with satisfaction. 'I could not have said it better myself.'

  'Probably not,' agreed Orisian. 'Look after him well, and salt some of his boar for me. I will see you at the Naming.'

  Orisian swung up into his saddle, patting the horse's muscular neck in greeting. Rothe and Kylane flanked him as he rode out through the massive gatehouse. When Orisian glanced back over his shoulder, Croesan, Naradin and Eilan still stood together, each one raising a hand in farewell. With a last wave, Orisian and his shieldmen turned south through Anduran's crowded streets towards the road that would carry them down the valley and on to Kolglas and home.

  By the time the three riders were beyond the city's edge, almost vanished into the distance, Croesan oc Lannis-Haig was watching them go from one of the highest windows of Castle Anduran's keep. As he often did, he felt a twinge of sorrow for Orisian, and that brought forth the familiar mixture of feelings for the boy's father, Kennet: the bond of love that brotherhood instilled, coloured by frustration and pain. The sadness in Kennet's heart seemed only to have deepened and grown blacker in the five years since the fevered deaths of Lairis and Fariel, his wife and elder son. It kept Kolglas and all who lived there under a burden of loss. Croesan had lost his own wife many years ago, and thus knew something of what afflicted Kennet, but he had given up any hope of salving the grief that sometimes made itself his brother's master, and it pained him that the past weighed so upon those he loved. Orisian and his sister Anyara had, after all, lost as much as Kennet, and still found the strength to bear that loss upon shoulders much younger and less sturdy than those of the lord of Castle Kolglas. The Thane sighed and set those thoughts aside as he turned away from the window.

  A manservant was waiting by the door. Croesan glanced at him.

  'Find the Steward,' he said, unable to keep a hint of weariness out of his voice. 'Ask him to come.'

  The servant nodded and left the chamber. Croesan ran a hand through his thick hair. He gazed around the room. A huge table, made in one of Anduran's finest woodshops fifty years ago by order of his great-uncle Gahan, ran most of its length. The walls bore three broad tapestries. Time and sunlight had faded them somewhat, but they still showed the delicacy of touch that marked them as the work of Kolkyre craftsmen. They had been commissioned by Sirian the Great himself, the first Lannis Thane, and showed scenes from the battle that forged the Blood. Croesan regarded the images for a little while. They were, perhaps, not inappropriate as a backdrop for the conversation he was about to have.

  Hard upon the heels of the servant trying to announce his arrival, the Steward swept in: Behomun Tole dar Haig, emissary of the Thane of Thanes within Croesan's lands. He gave a casual bow and Croesan gestured him towards a chair, simultaneously dismissing the servant with a curt nod. Behomun's sharp, clever features and ill-concealed arrogance never failed to aggravate Croesan. The man had the satisfied air of one who knew things others did not. A sneer lived surreptitiously at the corner of his mouth, eagerly awaiting any opportunity to creep out of hiding and cavort upon his lips. He was, however, the eyes and ears of Gryvan oc Haig, the High Thane, to whom Croesan had pledged allegiance, and as such he had to be treated with a degree of care. He was like an itch Croesan could reach but was not permitted to scratch.

  'I gather young Orisian has left,' said Behomun, his tone solicitous. 'It was remiss of me ... I meant to enquire after his father's health. Have you heard how your brother fares?'

  'I had word from the south yesterday,' Croesan said levelly. 'I am told the battles have not gone well for Igryn; that the Dargannan Blood will soon be subdued.'

  'I have had the same word,' agreed Behomun, unperturbed by Croesan's disregard for his question. 'It seems the rebels will be brought to heel before winter is far advanced, and the Haig Bloods will be united once more.'

  'I am also told,' continued Croesan, 'that the men of Lannis have acquitted themselves with honour in those battles. So much honour, I believe, that barely a handful will return to their homes.'

  'Your Blood has always produced warriors of the greatest courage, sire.'

  Croesan arc
hed an eyebrow and stared at Gryvan oc Haig's envoy. 'Honour and courage will not feed the orphans of Anduran or Glasbridge through the coming winter. They will not guard my lands from the woodwights or from the Gyre Bloods. I have near one in six of all my people dead from the Heart Fever just five years ago, and the best quarter of the fighting strength I had left taken south, on the High Thane's command, to die so bravely.

  'The last time we sent so many men south we had the armies of Horin-Gyre marching on our frontier within weeks. We won then. Who is to say what will happen if the Black Road comes across the Vale of Stones again? You know as well as I, Behomun, that there has been more skirmishing in the Vale these last few weeks than for many a year. And my own son killed a boar with a woodwight arrow in it not a day's ride from this castle. When have the White Owls strayed so far into my lands before?'

  'The woodwights can hardly threaten a Blood as versed in the arts of war as yours. Kyrinin bows and spears are no match for the swords of Lannis-Haig. And as for the Bloods of the Black Road, I am certain that if they were to come against you, your strength would turn them back as it has always done, Thane.'

  'Oh, spare me your flattery, Steward,' said Croesan in exasperation. 'This is not Vaymouth. You can save your velvet tongue for Gryvan's court. I'd hate for you to wear it out for my benefit.'

  Behomun's manner changed. That sneer was close, testing its leash. 'As you wish. Perhaps a different response will find more favour: that your troubles are not to be laid at the door of Gryvan oc Haig. The White Owl Kyrinin hunt your woodcutters and herders because you set your people to clear the forests of Anlane. You must have known that would stir up trouble as surely as a stick poked into a wasp nest.

  'And if your northern borders are less well guarded against the Black Road than you would wish, you should have agreed to the High Thane's requests for land to settle his veterans upon. An army of proven warriors would now fill the very farms that the Fever emptied, if you had found a place for them. In any case, if you believed there was a serious threat, you would surely not have allowed Taim Narran and the others to go south at all. It would not be the first time you defied a command of your High Thane.'

  'The warriors Gryvan wanted to settle here would take no oath of loyalty to me. To my Blood,' Croesan snapped.

  The Steward snorted and waved a hand. 'Every one of them loyal to the Haig Bloods, already bound to Gryvan oc Haig himself. As are you and your Blood, lest you have forgotten. Why put them through your old rituals?'

  Croesan paused, his ga2e lifting for a moment from the Steward's face to the tapestry on the wall behind him. Sirian was there, riding down the fleeing forces of the Gyre Bloods. Croesan felt old, almost too tired to engage in futile arguments with this man who cared nothing for the past. When the tapestry was made, little more than a century ago, none would have questioned the worth of oaths. None would have thought them to be empty rituals. But Kilkry had been the highest amongst the True Bloods in those days, and many things had been different. Now Lheanor, the Kilkry Thane, bent the knee to Gryvan oc Haig as the rest of them did.

  'Had I known,' Croesan said at length, 'that Gryvan would punish my refusal by taking the lives of my men, I might have thought longer.' Behomun started to protest, spreading his hands in denial of what Croesan said. The Thane spoke over him. 'But my answer would not have changed. Any man who would be a warrior for the Lannis Blood must swear fealty. It is not so long since the same law was kept in Haig lands, Behomun, though your master seems to have forgotten it.'

  'Times change.'

  Croesan sighed. 'They do, though there are few truly new things in the world. We had Kings once before. Rats and dogs have inherited their palaces in Dun Aygll. I am told the new mansions in Vaymouth rival that lost glory.'

  'The High Thane has no wish to make himself a king.'

  'As you say. But it is of no matter now. I am sending word south to Taim Narran that he is to return with those of my men who still live as soon as Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig is taken. I wished only to tell you that. I would not want a hurried departure to be taken amiss.'

  The Steward nodded. 'Narran is yours to command, of course. I am sure the High Thane will not wish to delay his return.'

  'I hope he will neither wish it nor do it,' replied Croesan.

  Behomun smiled.

  The road south from Anduran was a well-travelled one. Orisian, Rothe and Kylane passed cattle herders and farmers, as well as carts carrying fleeces, furs and carved furniture from Anduran's workshops down to the harbour at Glasbridge. Late in the morning they overtook a line of half a dozen timber-laden wagons, the gigantic workhorses raised by Lannis woodsmen labouring in their harnesses.

  They had crossed the Glas River not long after leaving Anduran, and the road now followed close by its northern bank, protected by a low dyke. Though the river was high, fed by rains in the uplands beyond Lannis-Haig's borders, it was still a long way from overtopping the bund and threatening the road. The open fields to its south had no such protection and they were patterned with pools, the harbingers of winter floods.

  After a time the track began to skirt round to the north of the Glas Water. The great wetland swallowed the river, hiding its course amidst a maze of pools, channels and marshes. In a month or two, there would be an unbroken sheet of pale water covering a great sweep of the valley floor. Riding along the fringes of this wild place, Orisian could see, faint in its misty heart, the ruined towers of old Kan Avor. The broken turrets and spires of the drowned city rose above the waters like a ghostly ship on the sea's horizon. The sight, as it always did, stirred a faint unease in him. He had gone there once, as a child, with his brother Fariel. It had been high summer, exceptionally dry, and the waters were low enough for them to ride through some of the city's desolate streets. The muck-and weed-crusted ruins loomed over them, obscuring the sun. Orisian had thought it a haunted, ugly place and he had not been back, for all Fariel's good-natured taunts at his fearfulness. Fariel had never been one to pay much heed to fear.

  'They should tear it down,' said Kylane, seeing the line of Orisian's gaze. 'Does no good to have that foul place rotting there. And fine farmland sunk along with it, too.'

  'People need reminding,' muttered Rothe. 'The Black Road is still there, in the north. Without those ruins to remind them, how soon would people forget? There's too many have done that already.'

  Kylane shrugged. 'You can't fault people for enjoying peace. It's better than thirty years since the last battle.'

  'You can fault them if they start to believe peace is forever. Every day, those beyond the Vale of Stones wake up thinking the Gods will return if only they could subject us all to their precious creed. You don't imagine they've stopped wanting to get these lands back just because they haven't tried in the last thirty years, do you?'

  Here, close upon the edge of the Glas Water, the road was in poorer repair and stretches of deeply rutted mud often blocked their way. As they worked around one such obstruction Kylane gave a cry of surprise and reached precariously down from his saddle. When he hauled himself upright again, he was brandishing a trophy: a human jaw bone.

  'One of the Glas Water's treasures,' he grinned at Orisian. 'You know some of the farmers say it's good fortune to unearth one of these?'

  Orisian grimaced. 'I've heard it,' he acknowledged. 'I don't think we need good fortune that badly at the moment, though.'

  The ancient bone was pitted and stained the colour of soil. Kylane examined it with mock curiosity.

  'Hero or villain, do you think?' he asked.

  Beneath the mists and sullen pools of the Glas Water lay the graves of thousands who had died on Kan Avor Field, the final battle in the war that drove the followers of the Black Road - led by the Gyre Blood, whose stronghold Kan Avor had been in those days - north beyond the Stone Vale. The fires had burned day and night across this land afterwards, yet still had not been enough to consume all the corpses.

  After the exile of Gyre, Kan Avor had slowly declin
ed under uncaring masters but its final ruin came later, when the Lannis Blood was created and granted rule over the Glas Valley. One of the first commands of Sirian, the new Thane, had been for the burning and flooding of the city. Kan Avor's slow, waterlogged decay was a permanent reminder of his determination to stamp his authority upon his new domain.

  'Villain, I say,' decided Kylane in answer to his own question. 'Black Road through and through, this one.' He sent the bone spinning away with a flick of his wrist. 'No fit travelling companion for the nephew to the Lannis Thane.'

  Daylight was fading as they came towards the Glas Water's southern end. A clutch of low houses came in sight through the thin drizzle that was beginning to fall.

  'We'll pass the night at Sirian's Dyke?' Kylane asked.

  'Why not?' agreed Orisian. 'It'll be a short day to Glasbridge tomorrow. Try not to lose too much sleep in the name of drink and dice, though.'

  Kylane laid a hand upon his chest. 'Why, Orisian, you know I'm not one to surrender to such temptations.'

  Rothe, riding a little ahead of them, snorted in derision but said nothing.

  Sirian's Dyke, Orisian had always thought, was a gloomy village. Thirty or forty small cottages clustered together, surrounded by dank stands of spindly trees. The only structure of any size was the resthouse. The lights at its windows provided at least some promise of warmth and cheer. Its outbuildings - stable, smithy and wheelwright's shop - clung to its walls like children seeking protection at the skirt of a nursemaid. All was dominated by the great, harsh line of Sirian's Dyke itself. The massive dam of timber, stone and earth, standing higher than a man, stretched out from the edge of the village and vanished into the twilight. Here was the means by which Sirian had drowned Kan Avor. In all the years since its construction, most of the village's inhabitants had worked in the pay of successive Lannis Thanes to maintain this bulwark against the will of the river and keep Kan Avor bound in its watery chains.