Godless World 1 - Winterbirth

by Brian Ruckley

  Rothe came then. The great shieldman rushed down upon them. The two Inkallim spun away from Orisian, stepping apart. Groaning at the agony it cost him, Orisian stretched and planted his dagger firmly in a heel. The blade was snatched from his hand as the warrior kicked out in surprise. It was enough to unbalance the Inkallim, and Rothe's sudden lunge knocked him flat. Orisian scrambled for the fallen man's sword arm, clinging to it with all the despairing strength of someone clutching a branch in a flood. Rothe parried a blow from the woman, turning the point of her sword down. He carried a long-bladed knife in his left hand, and in the blink of an eye he had driven it twice, to the hilt, into her stomach. She fell. Even as Rothe turned, the second Inkallim broke Orisian's weakening hold and rose to one knee. Rothe's sword almost took the man's jawbone from his face.

  Rothe pulled Orisian to his feet. The female warrior was still alive, curled up and making strange coughing sounds as she clasped her hands over her stomach.

  'Kylane . . .' murmured Orisian. That sent waves of fire across his chest and he could say no more. Rothe ignored him.

  Leaning against his shieldman's side, Orisian saw that the door of the keep was closed. There was no sign of Anyara. He looked around. The battle was almost over. A handful of Lannis men were left by the sleeping quarters, stumbling over the dead as they fought with quiet, vain desperation. To the left, a solid rank of Inkallim had hemmed Kennet and his few remaining defenders, including Inurian, tight against the castle wall. Rothe had left his father's side to come to him, Orisian realised, not knowing what to make of the thought.

  He glanced towards the castle gate, half-expecting the garrison from the town to pour in and save them. If this were anything other than a nightmare, they would surely do so. Figures were indeed moving beneath the gatehouse, coming in from the causeway, but they were not Lannis men. More Inkallim, a few on horses, and at the head of them a man whose appearance added yet another layer of unreality to the scene: a na'kyrim. Much younger than Inurian, taller and more lithe, but unmistakably a child of two races.

  Then Rothe was dragging him across the courtyard towards the stables.

  'Keep's closed,' Rothe snapped. 'We've got to get you out.'

  'Father . . .' Orisian gasped.

  Inkallim were coming for them. Rothe threw Orisian into the stables. He sprawled amongst the straw, knocking a bucket of water flying. His nostrils were filled with the smell of the place, and with the scent of smoke. Somewhere out of sight a fire had started. The horses were stamping and snorting. A small body was lying in the straw, its blank eyes staring into Orisian's: Bair. The side of the boy's face had been cut open, exposing bone. Orisian struggled to his feet, leaning on the flank of a horse that heaved against him as it slipped towards panic.

  Looking out into the courtyard, he saw Inurian struck down, caught on the side of the head by the hilt of a sword. The newly arrived na'kyrim was riding forwards, crying, 'Keep him alive. That one is mine.'

  The last shieldman at Kennet's side stepped in front of his lord to intercept a swordstroke, and died. Kennet, shouting wordlessly, his face contorted by rage, cut down one more of the Inkallim before he was overwhelmed and pinned up against the wall. He was held, his arms pressed upon the stone, and the sword was pulled from his hand. He kicked out at his attackers. They were beyond his reach.

  Orisian started forwards, aware that he had no weapon but not caring. His path was blocked as a horse lurched across in front of him. Rothe was belabouring it with the flat of his sword, driving it and the others out from the stables towards their pursuers. Without pause, the shieldman swept around, gathering Orisian with his free arm and bearing him backwards into the shadows.

  'No!' Orisian could hear himself crying.

  Over his shieldman's shoulder, he saw Kennet spitting curses at his captors. Then one of the Inkallim stepped forwards and sank a knife deep into Kennet's chest. Orisian howled. His view was cut off as Rothe brought him to the postern gate at the back of the stables. He struggled to break free of his shieldman's grip. Rothe tore the bar from the door and dragged Orisian through the short tunnel to the outer portal.

  They emerged on the brink of the sea, where there was no smoke and no light and the night air was shocking. Orisian stumbled over the rocks, slipped and fell. He staggered to his feet. Then Rothe was at his shoulder again, steering him towards the jetty and the dark shape of Inurian's boat.

  'No!' shouted Orisian. 'We have to go back!'

  Rothe threw him bodily into the boat and tossed his sword after him. He tore at the mooring rope and, gasping at the exertion, pushed the boat from the jetty.

  Orisian stood unsteadily.

  'Rothe, no!' he shouted.

  He felt a solid thump in his side. Strength fled from his legs and he slumped down. He clutched at the hilt of the throwing knife that was embedded in him. He stared at it. There was no pain.

  There were figures rushing over the rocks. The Inkallim moved fast, as if in full daylight.

  The boat surged out on to the water. Rothe vaulted in. He knelt by Orisian and paddled with a single oar. They eased out from beneath the towering walls of the castle and into the open expanse of the bay.

  Orisian lay back, feeling the world slipping away from him. He looked up at a sky scattered with a thousand tiny cold stars. Water lying in the bottom of the boat soaked the back of his head. He could feel blood flowing over his hand where it lay on the knife in his side. He heard waves slapping at the boat's prow. He heard Rothe's laboured breathing. And he saw his father's face.

  He closed his eyes.

  Chapter 2

  Kyrinin

  HUANIN SCRIBES WILL tell you that the Kyrinin are all one; that their likeness one to another binds them together and sets them in opposition to all humankind. These scribes are blind to that which they do not understand. When the Walking God, the God Who Laughed, made the Kyrinin, when he strode across the world calling them into being, he made not one clan but many. Huanin and Kyrinin fell to slaughtering one another only long after the Gods had left the world; the Kyrinin clans have been shedding one another's blood since the first dawn of their existence. And few have bathed their spears more often than White Owl and Fox.

  The White Owl babe learns hatred of the Fox with the taste of its mother's milk. The child of the Fox knows that the White Owl are its enemy before it has the words to express the knowledge. When the Kyrinin clans were in their greatest glory, before the War of the Tainted and before Tane, that wondrous city of every heart's desire, fell and was submerged beneath the Anain's Deep Rove, Fox and White Owl knew no peace. Much changed in the re-ordering of things that followed the defeat of their kind by the Huanin, but each preserved their hatred of the other, guarding it as jealously as they guard the ever-burning fires of their winter camps. To be of the Fox is to be the White Owl's foe, and to be of the White Owl is to be, from first breath to last, the foe of the Fox. Stone is less enduring than their enmity.

  from The Kyrinin Histories

  by Adymnan of the Heron

  I

  THE ARMY HAD made camp in a high valley. A sea of a thousand tents covered the grass, rock outcrops rising above it here and there. Hundreds of war-horses were tethered on the shallow lower slopes of the surrounding peaks. The sun stood above the head of the valley. Eagles and ravens drifted across its glare as they surveyed this vast intrusion upon their mountainous domain.

  Gryvan oc Haig stood before the greatest of all the tents. He was resplendent in his finest garb: the crimson cloak of the Thane of Thanes, a cuirass of shining metal beneath it; a scabbard studded with gemstones at his side and his great-grandfather's golden chain about his neck. His hands rested on the hilt of his sword. The point of the blade was pressed into the earth at his feet, as if to signify that the land itself had submitted to him. Kale and others of the High Thane's Shield stood to either side. Hundreds of warriors were gathered before them in a gigantic semi-circle. At its focus, kneeling before Gryvan, was Igryn oc Dargannan-Ha
ig. The defeated Thane was yoked to a heavy log, rough ropes fixing his arms to it at the wrist. The skin there was rubbed away. Another rope held his neck more loosely.

  Gryvan was regarding his prisoner with undisguised satisfaction. 'Where is your pride now, Igryn?' he asked.

  Igryn made no reply. His head hung low.

  'Trussed like a common thief,' mocked Gryvan. 'A fate fit for a traitor, do you agree? For a faithless dog? For one who knows less of duty than the least of the masterless?'

  There were cries of agreement and jeering from the ranks of the assembled army. Gryvan stilled the voices with a raised hand, and looked around the close-pressed warriors before him. He swept his gaze over them, and let them see in his eyes that he was one with them.

  'See what your enemy has come to,' he cried out. 'See the fruits of his arrogance. He is laid low by the strength of your arms.'

  That brought forth enthusiastic cheering.

  'Lift up his head,' Gryvan said to Kale.

  Kale stepped forwards and seized Igryn's thick red hair in a tight knot, wrenching his head back so that his battered face angled up towards the Thane of Thanes. His beard was matted and discoloured by dried blood. A recent wound stretched from temple to jawbone on one side of his face, the skin at its edges ragged and raw.

  'Your family came to my grandfather to beg his aid against the armies of Dornach, when you were nothing more than pirates and cut-throats,' said Gryvan. 'The price of that aid -- of raising you up to be Thanes in your own right, of turning your little fiefdom of bandits into a Blood -- was your pledge of loyalty to Haig and to Vaymouth. Better men than you, of Bloods that had a long history before yours was even a dream, see fit to honour that pledge. Yet you broke it, and thought to cast it off as if it were nothing more than a shawl. You have withheld the tithes that are owed to me, and given sanctuary to pirates, and imprisoned my Steward. Worse, we now find that you have so far forgotten your proper state as to buy Dornach men to serve in your armies against me. Have you nothing to say for yourself, Igryn? Are you impervious to shame?'

  The captive Thane parted his lips in a crude smile. There was blood in his mouth.

  'Nothing,' he said.

  If Gryvan was disappointed he did not show it. 'Very well. It is a long journey back to Vaymouth. Perhaps you will rediscover your tongue by the time we get there. Then we can discuss who might make a fitting replacement for you as Thane of these misbegotten lands.'

  The High Thane lifted his sword and slid it back into its ornate scabbard, turning his back upon the kneeling figure. Kale released his grip on the man's hair, and Igryn's head fell forwards as he swayed upon his knees.

  Gryvan beckoned Kale to him. He spoke softly, his words meant only for the master of his Shield.

  'I do not wish him dead. It will be useful to have a living reminder for those others who chafe at my bit in their mouth. The thought of Igryn rotting in a gaol may give them pause, at least for a time. But even a prisoner can be troublesome if he has some claim to a throne, so he must live yet be unfit to rule. The Kings knew the way of these things. Their Mercy served well in the past. It is time to renew that tradition. See to it tonight.'

  As Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig was dragged away, the mood amongst the dispersing crowds was buoyant. Taim Narran kept his eyes down as he wove through the throng. He did not want to meet the gaze of some jubilant Haig warrior and be forced to pretend to feelings he could not share. He had come to see the humiliation of the captured Thane only out of a sense that he ought to witness the moment that so many of his men had died to bring about. Now all he wanted was the solitude of his own tent; failing that, if he must have company, let it be that of his surviving comrades. The men of Lannis had camped out on the fringes of the assembled army, keeping a wary distance from the far more numerous bands of Haig, Ayth and Taral warriors that made up the bulk of Gryvan's force.

  Passing by a row of great wagons, Taim was dragged out of his reverie by a familiar, irate voice. He looked up to see Roaric nan Kilkry-Haig berating the master of the wagon train. The Kilkry Thane's son was shouting furiously, his face blushing with anger. The target of his fury maintained an impassive calm, and showed no obvious sign of being intimidated by Roaric's status.

  Taim sighed. The standing of the Kilkry and Lannis Bloods seemed to sink lower with each passing day. Poor Roaric understood that as well as anyone, yet his only response to the anger and pain that knowledge engendered was to grow ever more bitter and confrontational. It did not bode well for the future.

  'Roaric,' Taim said quietly, laying a hand on the younger man's arm.

  Roaric whirled about and almost unleashed a further torrent of abuse. As soon as he recognised Taim he mastered himself and let out a long, deep breath.

  'I'm sorry,' he muttered. 'I thought you were another one of Gryvan's lackeys.'

  'Walk with me,' said Taim. 'I have wine and good salted beef waiting for me. You're welcome to share it.'

  With a last vitriolic stare over his shoulder, Roaric allowed himself to be steered gently away. The heat in his cheeks slowly subsided.

  'I know it does no good,' he said, as if anticipating a reprimand from Taim. 'But they treat us with such contempt. That man has cut the food supplies I need for my wounded. He says everyone is treated the same, but I've seen no sign of Haig men going hungry.'

  'I can spare some supplies,' said Taim quietly. 'We've been hoarding them against the journey home.'

  'I was not asking for that,' replied Roaric.

  'I know, but the offer is an honest one. Lannis and Kilkry stand together, remember?'

  'Thank you.'

  They walked on a way in silence. A small audience had gathered around two men who were rolling on the grass, throwing ineffective punches at one another. As the combatants slithered sideways Roaric and Taim had to step around them. The crowd of onlookers cheered and called for greater effort, perhaps a little blood.

  'At least it's all done,' Taim muttered. 'There'll be no more battles, now Igryn is taken.'

  'No,' agreed Roaric. He glanced almost nervously at Taim. 'I have lost more than a thousand of my father's men.'

  'You did not lose them so much as they were taken from you.'

  'Still, I am ashamed. I should have done more. My father will be horrified to see how few of us return. Perhaps if he had sent Gerain in my place . . .'

  'Lheanor chose you to lead, not your brother,' Taim interrupted him. 'He will not blame you for what has happened, and you should not blame yourself. If the Bloodheir had been here instead of you the outcome would have been just the same. Gryvan would have made sure of it.'

  'Oh, I know. In my heart, I know that. But what a pitiful state to find ourselves in! My family were High Thanes, and now here we are beholden to the whim of Gryvan oc Haig. We bow and scrape and run back and forth at his command. For a hundred and fifty years we led the True Bloods. It was Kilkry Thanes who stood against the Black Road when it appeared; it was us who had to keep the Bloods together when Gyre threatened to break everything apart. It's Lannis that's held our borders against them for a century or more, Taim. And what does Gryvan care for all of that? Nothing. Haig rules now, and that's all that matters to him.'

  'Roaric...' Taim began to say soothingly.

  'You know it's true. Ayth and Taral are so tightly bound up with Haig they hardly deserve to be called Bloods any more. Now Dargannan's broken and Gryvan's got his eye on us. He'll call himself king one day, or if not him his son. You'll see.'

  'I don't know what will happen in the future. What I care about today, what you should care about, is getting the men I have left back to their homes. Let Croesan and Lheanor decide what happens beyond that. Winter is here, Roaric. Get your men back to their warm fires and warm beds and loving wives. Time enough to be angry then.'

  Roaric did not look wholly convinced but he lapsed into an acquiescent silence. Taim was half-tempted to put an arm around his shoulder. He might be a Thane's son, but there was something of the chi
ld in Roaric's raw anger and injured pride.

  With the fall of night, the valley began to freeze. The air was crystal sharp. Despite the bitter chill, there was celebration through much of the camp. Gathered around glaring fires, small bands of men forgot the weariness in their limbs and sang, shouted and drank their fill. Here and there amongst the warriors danced women who had followed in the army's wake all the way from Vaymouth. Dogs bounded from fire to fire and group to group, barking and chasing one another through forests of legs. Already, though it was yet early, there were slumped forms on the ground, where men had staggered away from the circle around a fire and succumbed to wine-induced slumber. The frosted night might yet claim a few lives spared by the battles of the last weeks.

  Taim Narran made his way through this chaotic scene. He shrugged off efforts to draw him into each noisy crowd, and waved away the wineskins that he was offered. Such revels were familiar to him. As a young man, shaken and thrilled by his first taste of battle, he had been in Tanwrye for the days of excess that had followed the victory over the Horin-Gyre Blood in the Vale of Stones. It had not been the greatest of battles: a few thousand invaders, lacking the support of the other Gyre Bloods. Still, it had been intoxicating. The Lannis Blood had stood against their old enemies, traded blows with them and emerged triumphant.

  Tonight, however, there was no joy or excitement in him. There was little of anything save a vague relief at still having his life and the distorted reflection of that relief: guilt at living on when so many of the men he had brought here did not. He was tired, in his heart as much as his bones.

  He came to the tent of Gryvan oc Haig, and waited while one of the guards sought permission to admit him. As he stood there, stepping from one foot to another in an effort to distract himself from the deepening cold, he sensed eyes upon him. Kale was standing a short distance away, half in and half out of the shadows at the side of the tent, watching him impassively. For a moment their gazes met. It was Taim who looked away.