Godless World 1 - Winterbirth

by Brian Ruckley

  As he waited for the seerstem to take its effect the First of the Lore watched the flame on the candle by his bed. He was possessed by a vague unease. The weeks and months to come were likely to bring a war greater than any there had been for more than a century. That in itself did not concern him. The Kall would come only when all humankind was bound to the creed of the Black Road; such unity could only be achieved through war and conquest. As the Kall itself was inevitable, so too was eventual victory, whatever the outcome of the present strife.

  The roots of Theor's disquiet lay rather in regret. He had thought, when Ragnor first ascended to his throne in Kan Dredar, that he would make a good High Thane. In those early years he had seemed of one mind with his late father: dutiful, secure in his adherence to the creed and to the primacy of its advancement. Somehow, Ragnor had instead become merely a ruler, consumed by the meaningless day-to-day business of power. And they - all of the Inkallim, but most of all Theor himself - had failed in their responsibilities. They had allowed the rot to set in. Once, it might have been cut out with nothing more than a child's woodworking knife; now it would require a sword. Had he allowed the vigilance of the Lore to slip? Was he to blame that they had come to such extremity? In the end, it did not matter. This was the course they were fated to follow. But still, it could not hurt to ensure that no one had any further excuses to forget that the creed was the light that guided all things. When the Battle marched south, it would be fitting for a party of the Lore Inkallim to accompany it.

  The seerstem's tingling touch reached behind his ears, worked its way into the bones of his skull. He rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. Shapes were beginning to move on the inside of his eyelids. He stilled himself, forcing all thoughts from his mind. He waited to see what would come.

  Taim Narran could not be sure what was being destroyed on the other side of the door. Judging by the sounds that filtered through the heavy oak, it was something substantial. Out of respect for Roaric nan Kilkry-Haig's feelings -- and perhaps, if he was honest, out of trepidation - he waited until the noise had subsided before entering.

  Lheanor's one surviving son - the Bloodheir, now - stood in the middle of the small room. Fragments of wood were scattered around him on the stone floor. A chair leg still hung, forgotten, from his limp hand. Roaric's head was bowed, his eyes closed, his shoulders slumped. The Thane's son had returned from the south only this morning. He had brought even fewer of his men back alive from Dargannan-Haig lands than Taim had. To be greeted with the news of his brother's death at Grive would have been too much even for one of less tempestuous nature, Taim thought.

  Roaric had not registered Taim's presence. He stood quite still, lost in the numb fog of grief. Taim hesitated. He was not sure that he could offer anything to the young man; or that it would be welcomed, even if he could. They had been comrades, though, in Gryvan's war; friends amidst a storm of hostility.

  'Roaric,' he said softly, then, when there was no response, again more loudly: 'Roaric.'

  The younger man looked up, his eyes wild and bleary. They drifted over Taim, swung around across the window.

  'I am sorry,' Taim murmured. 'You deserved a better homecoming than this. We all did.'

  Roaric let the chair leg slip from his fingers. It clattered to the floor. He walked to the window, unconsciously kicking aside the detritus of his rage as he went.

  'They'll bleed rivers of blood in answer for this, the Black Road,' he said thickly. He planted his hands on either side of the window, stared out over his father's city. 'I should have been here.'

  'We both should have been.'

  'I was proud when my father gave me charge of our armies to march south. Proud! And look at this now. All but a few hundred of the men who marched with me are dead. My brother's dead. We're nothing but shadows of what we once were, Kilkry and Lannis. We're like sickly children, our strength leaking away from a thousand little sores.'

  'It's not over yet,' said Taim.

  'No?' Roaric snapped. He spun away from the window and glared fiercely at Taim. The emotion lasted only for an instant, though. As soon as he saw Taim's face Roaric's own anger sank away. He only shook his head.

  'There will be a chance for us to give answer for what has happened,' Taim said levelly.

  'Perhaps,' murmured the Kilkry-Haig Bloodheir. 'Perhaps.'

  'I leave for Glasbridge tomorrow. I wanted to see you, offer my regrets and good wishes, before I left.'

  'I am sorry to intrude.'

  The soft voice from the doorway surprised both of them. Ilessa, Roaric's mother, stood there. There was an awful pain in her face, Taim saw, when she looked at her son. She fears for him, he thought.

  'There is someone here I think you will wish to see, Taim Narran,' Ilessa said. 'Will you come with me?'

  Taim glanced at Roaric, but the younger man had turned away, almost as if he was ashamed to meet his mother's gaze. With a heavy heart, he followed Ilessa out and down the spiralling stairway that formed the spine of the Tower of Thrones.

  'Boats are coming to the harbour,' Ilessa said as they went. 'They've taken flight from Glasbridge; it's fallen, Taim. Destroyed.'

  A groan escaped Taim's lips before he could restrain it.

  'All is not ill tidings today, though,' Ilessa said quickly. 'Come, in here.'

  She ushered him through a doorway, but did not follow. He wondered why for a moment, then his eyes fell upon the room's sole occupant: a slight woman seated at a table. At that sight, Taim's breath caught in his throat and his mind was swept clean of all that had crowded it. Tears sprang to his eyes as she rose from the table and he went to embrace his wife.

  'I feared for you,' he said as he crushed her to him and felt her arms about his waist. Here was light and hope amidst all the gloom, and he could do nothing more than cling to her.

  'And I for you,' Jaen replied in an uneven voice. 'You have been gone too long this time.'

  'Yes, far too long.' And that was all he'could say for a little while.

  She told him, later, of Glasbridge's end; of the still, misty morning when a wild flood came out of the north. The Glas became a wall of water roaring down the valley. It swept across the camp of warriors outside the town's northern gate, gathering a cargo of dead men and horses. It piled up against the palisade and the bridges, hammering at them with trees and boulders and corpses carried by the surge. The water swelled and foamed until it tore the great timbers of Glasbridge's stockade out of the earth. The wall of oak that had guarded the town's northern flank was ripped away and carried down to the sea. The flood rushed through the heart of the town. And at last, almost upon the stroke of noon, the stone bridge that had spanned the mouth of the river since the days of the Aygll Kingship broke and crashed with a defeated rumble into the foaming waters.

  There were hours of chaos, of noise and fear and anger. At dusk the army of the Black Road came in the wake of the flood, and then there was nothing left but fear.

  Taim's wife, his daughter and her husband fought their way to the docks and in the mad tumult of the waterside managed to buy their way on to a little fishing boat. The vessel, labouring beneath a mass of frightened families, struggled out into the estuary. Looking back as they drew close to Kolglas, they had seen the night sky lit by a diffuse orange glow, and they knew that Glasbridge was afire.

  Through all this grim tale Taim felt only relief and the lifting of a great burden. His wife and daughter were delivered to him out of the slaughter that had consumed his homeland. Beyond hope, the darkness had seen fit to allow him this one ray of light. When they lay that night in one another's arms for the first time in so long, he found that he still had the capacity, for a time, to believe in - and to accept -- sanctuary.

  VII

  ORISIAN AND YVANE were sitting on the shore behind Hammarn's hut. The na'kyrim was scraping dirt from beneath her fingernails with a twig. Orisian was watching Edryn Delyne's ship. Torches had been lit at bow and stern as dusk began to fall. Now an
d again their light flickered as somebody moved in front of them.

  Somewhere out in the gathering gloom a seabird screeched. The cry was not one Orisian recognised from Kolglas. It sounded like the voice of a deserted land. The small boats lying on the mud, and tied to decrepit little jetties, had an abandoned air about them.

  'No sign of Ess'yr yet,' Orisian said. 'Or Varryn. I thought they might have come to find us by now.'

  'They might have problems of their own, now the White Owls -- maybe even the Black Road -- are loose in their lands. Anyway, there'll be time enough in the morning, if they've not come to us by then. You said the ship sails in the afternoon?'

  Orisian nodded. Yvane was digging at her fingernails with greater vigour. It was obvious she had more to say, and he did not have to wait long to hear it.

  'You understand something of the weight the Kyrinin place upon death and the dead?'

  'Something.'

  'They feel the eyes of the dead upon them. They put food out to keep away the restless dead, and have their soulcatchers to snare the ones they can't put off. This ra'tyn that Ess'yr has taken on is an oath that may not be broken, because it is given to someone on the brink of death. If she failed that promise, the failure would keep the dead one from his rest and shake him into such anger that no amount of food,.or chanting, or drumming would keep him from her. No matter how much he loved her when he lived. It's a serious matter.'

  'And Varryn doesn't approve,' murmured Orisian.

  'No. He never liked Inurian in the first place, I would guess. Most Kyrinin think little better of na'kyrim than they do of Huanin; I expect Varryn was. . . distressed at his sister's involvement with one of them.'

  'Still, he's helped her to see her promise through.'

  'He loves her. And she must have loved Inurian to make it in the first place.' She cast aside the stick and scratched at her upper arm. 'You understand, then. Ess'yr will die for you if need be, because of that promise. For no other reason. That is the beginning and end of why she has come so far with you, why she has stayed close.'

  Orisian looked intently at the na'kyrim. She pretended not to notice his gaze.

  'No other reason,' he said, and Yvane gave a quick, emphatic nod.

  'None,' she said. 'It's enough, isn't it?'

  'It's enough.'

  'Good. Tomorrow, then. In the morning, you can say your farewells.'

  Orisian knew perfectly well that he might never see Ess'yr again once Koldihrve was behind him, and he would be lying to himself if he pretended that thought mattered not at all. Her presence -- however distant it might sometimes be - had woken, and now nourished, something deep inside him.

  'It won't go well for them, will it? If the White Owls come this far, and the Black Road?' he said.

  Yvane folded her hands into her lap.

  'It may not. The Fox has never been a large clan. Not many warriors. The townsfolk might help them, but you can never be sure with Koldihrvers. They're not usually the kind of people to put themselves at risk on another's account. But who knows? It's only those Black Road brutes who think the future's carved in stone.'

  'This is madness,' muttered Orisian with sudden bitterness. 'None of this would've happened if we hadn't come here.'

  Yvane's hand twitched, as if she wanted to swat away his thought, but it stayed in her lap.

  'Be careful,' she said. 'Guilt's a dangerous thing. Whoever's fault this is, it's not yours, or your sister's. Fox and White Owl, True Bloods and Black Road: these are old battles. They began long before you were born. Most likely, they'll still be raging long after we're all gone.'

  A faint shout from the Tal Dyreen vessel drew his eyes up, but there was nothing to see. It was getting darker all the time; the shipboard torches stood out more brightly than ever. One moment he longed to be back at Kolglas or Glasbridge, hungered for the chance to do something more than run from his enemies; the next he was afraid of what he would find there, of what it would mean to be Thane at a time of war. It could have been Fariel; but for the Heart Fever, it could have been Fariel who had to face this. That would have been better for the Blood.

  He sighed. He had no wish to dwell on such things.

  'You are coming with us, then. On the ship?' he asked.

  Yvane wrinkled her nose. It was a sharp, uncharacteristic gesture.

  'Seems the wisest course. Much as I like my solitude, I'm no fool. Neither the Vale of Tears nor the Car Criagar seem the most appealing of places at the moment. Can't say I'm overjoyed at the prospect. I've never met a Tal Dyreen, but from what I've heard of them I doubt I'll find them pleasant company.'

  'What will you do afterwards?'

  'Thank my good fortune that I've made it out of all this,' she said with a shrug. 'Curse Inurian for sending you in my direction. Perhaps go to Highfast, which is what he wanted of me all along. Inurian often got his way in the end, I seem to recall.'

  'Can't you just . . . visit them as you did Hammarn, though?' Orisian asked. 'If all Inurian wanted was that they should be told about Aeglyss, about what was happening, can't you do it that way?'

  Yvane laughed. She gazed out towards the horizon.

  'If I turned up like that in the Elect's chambers, I'd be slapped away and cast out before she even bothered to find out who it was. I've no wish to repeat my experience of trying to eavesdrop on Aeglyss. They're more than a little protective of their privacy in Highfast: uninvited guests, even other na'kyrim, don't get a warm welcome. They're frightened, Orisian. All of us are, deep down. You pure-blooded folk have made sure of that, over the centuries.

  'Anyway, even if I was given the chance to announce myself, the mere mention of my name . . . well, let's just say I didn't leave there on the best of terms. Oh, they loved Inurian, of course. When he took his leave, it was all kind words, reluctant partings. When I went, it was arguments and ill wishes.'

  'You didn't like Inurian very much, did you?'

  'Ha! There's some precious youthful innocence. To imagine that it's all as simple as like or dislike; love or hate. Inurian and I never did decide which side of the line we fell upon.'

  Sudden noise from Hammarn's hut had both of them rising sharply and turning. There was shouting, the pounding of a fist on wood. Orisian went first, around to the front of the shack. Three men stood in the roadway: two of them torchbearers, the third a red-faced man with a dented iron helm on his head and a spear in his hand. This third was facing Hammarn, who was struggling to block the doorway with his slight frame. The old na'kyrim was agitated, hopping from foot to foot.

  'Not a way to treat guests,' Hammarn was spluttering, 'not at all. Cracking at doors in the dark.'

  His sideways glance in response to Orisian's appearance made the red-faced man turn around. He had a patchy beard spread sparsely over a scabbed chin. The glare he fixed on Orisian was almost contemptuous.

  'This one?' he demanded.

  'A guest,' Hammarn said irritably before anyone else could reply. 'This is Ame,' he told Orisian.

  The leaden glumness which he put into the phrase, as if he was announcing the arrival of an unpleasant affliction, might have made Orisian smile at another time, but he was tired and had a heavy heart.

  'Second Watchman,' Ame said gravely. If he had hoped Orisian would be impressed he was disappointed.

  'What's happening?' Rothe snapped from over Hammarn's shoulder. The shieldman's abrupt, and bulky, emergence from the shadows within the hut had the two torchbearers taking a nervous step back. Even Ame looked momentarily alarmed before he snapped his attention back to Orisian. He jabbed at him with a stubby finger.

  'You're wanted at the Tower,' he said.

  'Tower?'

  'Where Tomas holds court,' muttered Yvane.

  'He's wanted, you're not,' Ame growled at her. 'You'll keep out of sight, unless you're a fool.'

  'My pleasure,' Yvane said acidly.

  Rothe had pushed past Hammarn and stepped on to the road. He was a good head taller than Ame, and leaned u
ncomfortably close to the Second Watchman.

  'Not clever to throw orders around without knowing who you're talking to,' he said.

  'It's all right, Rothe,' Orisian said quickly. 'There's no point in starting arguments. Not now. You and I'll go with them.'

  He was worried for a moment that they would insist that Anyara came -- they must know she was inside, as they'd been watching so closely -- but Ame seemed satisfied. He was trying to stretch himself, Orisian noticed, to close the gap a little on Rothe's height.

  They went through the dark town in silence. There was nothing left of the day now; the only light was that seeping out between window shutters. Koldihrve was quiet. The air bore the faint smell of meat cooking over a fire.

  Ame walked ahead of them, a hint of ungainly swagger in his stride. The First Watchman's abode was the only stone-built structure in the whole town: an old, fragile-looking round tower that stood all of three storeys high. A wooden hall and house had been built around it at some time, leaving the tower like a stubby stone finger jabbed up through their midst.

  Orisian and Rothe were left to wait in a small, musty room. Voices leaked through from the adjoining hall; Koldihrve's Watch ate and drank well, from the sound of it. Rothe had the look of a man with only a small store of patience left.

  'I'll talk to this Tomas and we'll get back to the others,' Orisian said. 'It won't take long.'

  His shieldman gave his beard a distracted scratch. 'It's not right to have masterless men dragging us this way and that as they like,' he muttered.