Bloodheir tgw-2

by Brian Ruckley

  “Now,” rasped Aeglyss, “now you will see what wonders I can bring, Shraeve. Now you will see that you are right in thinking me the answer to the world’s need.”

  Mordyn tried to struggle, he commanded his arms and legs to lash out. Yet they barely stirred. The strings that bound his body to his will were loosened. He made to cry out — he did not know whether in fear or abuse — but no sound louder than a croak escaped his constricting throat.

  “There is no more time,” Aeglyss whispered. “Not for any of us. No more time for hiding or hanging back. We must race now, Shadowhand; race for the sun and the light and the glory. And death will take the hindmost.”

  Mordyn felt tears on his face. The hands that clasped his head were throbbing, beating against his temples with their insistent heat and force. His sight was blurring and darkening from the edges. He felt himself to be falling away inside his own head, descending into darkness. He could see nothing but those inhuman eyes before him. They were dwindling, but it was him who was receding, not them. And in the space he left behind him, another was rushing in, and he could feel the grief, the exultation, the delirious potency of that other as if they were his own.

  The Shadowhand briefly imagined himself embracing Tara, his precious wife; smelling her hair, feeling her cheek against his. He managed, just for a few transitory instants, to hold her, and feel again the wonderful lightness of love. Then he was pulling away even from her. He reached out as he fell, but she was gone. He was gone.

  The shutters were closed in the Palace of Red Stone. The fires and the braziers were stoked up, curtains drawn across every door. But still Tara Jerain felt cold. Ever since the Crossing, Vaymouth had been in the grip of chill winds coming down all the way from the Karkyre Peaks, perhaps from the Tan Dihrin itself. They laid frosts across the gardens and the rooftops, had even once, briefly, locked every drinking trough and washerwoman’s tub in ice.

  The Shadowhand’s wife walked alone through the echoing corridors of the Palace at dusk. She carried a candle, cupping its flame with her hand, following its shimmering light down the marble ways. She had nowhere to go, and nothing to do, this night. Her maids were drawing her a bath, and spreading fresh silks across her bed, but she was restless and not yet ready to sink back into the warm waters or into sleep.

  Each of the last half-dozen evenings had been the same. With the onset of dusk, Tara found her mood darkening in turn. An imprecise, indefinable anxiety began to seep into her thoughts. She could settle to no task, and find no distraction. This fretful stirring of her mind forced her body into motion. It brought no great easing of her worries, but the act of pacing through the halls and passages kept them in the background.

  And what was it that so undermined her ease? She could not say, though of course her persistent fear for her husband’s safety was a part of it. Word had come to Vaymouth of Aewult’s defeat — humiliation, some murmured when they thought themselves safe from prying ears — outside Glasbridge, but her unease had already taken root before that grim news. Perhaps it was only weariness, for her sleep had been a poor and wretched thing for some time now. She woke in the morning with heavy eyes, and a heavy heart, and fading memories of distressing dreams. She was not alone in suffering thus, she had gathered. There was something in the season, or in the air coming down out of the north, inimical to restful sleep, it seemed.

  A movement of the chilly air shook the flame of the candle, and she paused for a moment to ensure it did not falter. A chink, somewhere, in the palace’s defences. She would have one of the maids go in search of a shutter left open, or a door ajar. Tara wanted the palace sealed, impenetrable to the winter.

  She walked on. There was no sound save the soft tread of her slippers. The silence was not peaceful, though. It was, she now thought, oppressive as never before. She would like it to be broken, and with one sound above all others: Mordyn’s voice, ringing from the stone and marble walls, echoing through the chambers. Nobody seemed to be able to tell her where her husband was, or why she had received no word from him. He had marched with Aewult, someone told her, and returned with him to Kolkyre; he was in the Tower of Thrones, locking horns with Roaric oc Kilkry-Haig, another said. Or, inexplicably, had he gone to Highfast, as one rumour had it? She did not know. But she did know that she wanted him back, warming her bed and her heart and armouring her against the chills of winter. Perhaps only then would she sleep deeply again, and only then would the mist of unease be lifted.

  Tara’s maids had put scented oils in the bath. She smelled them before she entered the room and felt the hot steam. Braziers were burning here, and oil lamps. She pinched the candle out and handed it to one of the girls. Another took her velvet robe from her shoulders as she shrugged it off, and gathered her clothes as she shed them. She stepped into the bath. They left her alone then, and she closed her eyes, and felt the tingle of her immersed skin, breathed in the perfumes and the heat. She closed her eyes, and tried not to think of Mordyn, and of his absence.

  VIII

  Anyara refused to think of herself as a prisoner. She stubbornly behaved as if she were an honoured guest, and Aewult nan Haig and his followers conspired in that pretence sufficiently to give it a semblance of credibility. The tent she was housed in was enormous, with heavy canvas walls that were hung, inside, with fine rugs. Wooden planks had been laid for flooring, and a partition raised to give her an almost private bedchamber. She could come and go as she pleased, though the world of a huge and, she could not help but feel, hostile army camp was not appealing. The limits were unspoken, and she chose not to test them. She knew well enough that if she tried to enter Kolkyre, or to stray far beyond the bounds of the encampment in any direction, she would find her way obstructed. The obstruction might be polite, even deferential, but she did not doubt it would be firm.

  Coinach took this gentle imprisonment far worse than she did. She remembered a gaol cell in Anduran, when her captors, the Horin-Gyre Blood, had been much less soft-spoken; he saw only insult and humiliation and his own failure to discharge his duty as her shieldman.

  “Don’t be so miserable,” she said to him one day. “I don’t care what you think, I say it’s no part of your task to go picking fights with the High Thane’s entire army.”

  Coinach sat on the edge of the cot where he snatched brief spells of sleep — though only during the day, when Anyara was awake; he insisted on keeping solitary, wakeful watch all through the night — and glowered at her in a way that she was not sure was entirely fitting for a shieldman.

  “You can’t cut me a path out of this with your sword,” Anyara insisted, “so stop daydreaming about it. It’s no help to me to have you moping around.”

  “It is unforgivable that they should make a hostage of a Thane’s sister.”

  “Maybe it is. But listen to me. What matters here is that we try to make sure Orisian still has a Blood to be Thane of, when he gets back from wherever it is he’s gone. If staying here, or going to Vaymouth even, is what’s needed to keep Aewult from losing his mind completely, I’ll do it.”

  It was easy to summon up such words when talking to Coinach, but Anyara was a less compliant audience for herself. At every mention of her brother’s name, she had to crush the doubts and fears that swirled up within her. Only by denying them her attention could she keep the tears from her eyes, and keep putting one foot in front of the other. Wherever he was, whatever had happened to him, there was nothing she could do about it now. There was little she could do about her own situation, either, and though she secretly dreaded the prospect of being carried off to Vaymouth, that sentiment too she chose to ignore.

  One morning, the sides of the tent were stiff and creaking with a hard frost. The water in the bowl by Anyara’s bed was frozen. Lying there, bleary-eyed and with a neck aching from the overly soft pillow, she could hear Coinach moving about in the outer part of the tent. Perhaps he thought he was being quiet, trying not to disturb her, but she could hear him pulling back the flap of the tent
, gasping softly at the cruelly cold air that must be greeting him. She smiled a little to herself at that. She heard muffled voices, and a rattle of pots. One of Aewult’s cooks was bringing food — usually a thick oat porridge with bread and honey — and handing it over to Coinach. The shieldman insisted on tasting everything that was provided for Anyara to eat before it got anywhere near her. She had told him she thought it more than a little unlikely that Aewult meant to poison her, but in this at least he was immovable.

  His expression was grim when she finally emerged to break her fast.

  “What is it?” she asked as she sank into one of the cushioned chairs that they had been given.

  “The word is that the Bloodheir’s blockading Kolkyre.”

  “What?”

  Coinach shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s true or not. That’s what the cook says. A test of wills between Aewult and Roaric. The Bloodheir wants the men who killed his warriors while he was away, and Roaric won’t hand them over. And now, apparently, he’s saying he won’t make any payment to the families of the dead men until Aewult’s paid for all the horses and cattle the army’s taken.”

  Anyara groaned.

  “Aewult wants the Kilkry army that Roaric’s gathered in there disbanded all over again, too, I think,” Coinach added glumly. “The Thane refuses, of course. And… well, it sounds as though Roaric’s demanding that you be returned to the Tower of Thrones.”

  “Oh, so now I’m to be some little token for these… idiots to fight over?”

  “He’s only trying to stand by you, to get you out of Aewult’s grasp.”

  “No, he’s not,” Anyara snapped. “He’s trying to undo every insult he thinks his Blood has suffered at the hands of Haig. He’s trying to prove he’s strong enough and big enough to be Thane, and to face up to Aewult.” Her shoulders sagged, and she stared down into the grey porridge in her bowl. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure he thinks he’s helping. Aewult’s the wrong man to try to prove himself against, though, and this is the wrong time. Can’t he see that? Has everyone lost their mind?”

  “He’s got a dead brother and a dead father burdening him,” Coinach murmured.

  “We’ve all got the dead to deal with. All of us.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  On Anyara’s third day in Aewult’s camp, Ishbel came to see her. Anyara was surprised at her own indifference to the intrusion. The woman, standing smug and sneering in the great tent’s entrance, clearly had no purpose there except to gloat, yet Anyara found herself unmoved.

  “Not as comfortable for you as the Tower of Thrones, I imagine,” Ishbel said. She had a little flock of maids fluttering about behind her. They laughed.

  Anyara and Coinach were sitting cross-legged on the planked floor. He was showing her how to sharpen the knife he had given her. She glanced up, then turned her attention back to the blade.

  “I’ve seen much worse,” she said.

  Ishbel said nothing for a moment or two, but Anyara could feel her presence, and her self-satisfied smile. She concentrated on the weight of the whetstone in her hand, and the movement of the knife across it.

  “Should I lend you some of my maids?” Ishbel asked. “Or some clothes, perhaps? I know how the subject of rain capes interests you. I have some I could spare you, to keep the cold and the wet off.”

  “I’m sure,” Anyara muttered. “Your master has provided what servants I need, though, and I’ve cloaks enough.”

  “He’s not my master.”

  “No?” Anyara looked up and smiled thinly. “My mistake.”

  Ishbel left with a frown on her face, stamping her feet as she went.

  “Needs to learn some manners,” Coinach observed.

  “I don’t suppose she needs them, so long as she’s got the Bloodheir’s favour to wrap herself up in.”

  Boredom, and the excess of thinking time that came with it, was Anyara’s greatest discomfort. She asked more than once to meet with Aewult, hoping against hope that she might be able to soften him, but the message always came back that he was too busy. She practised knifework with Coinach. He was a patient teacher, hiding well whatever reservations he felt about the exercise. The nights were the worst. The camp was never quiet, and all through the hours of darkness she could hear voices and the creaking of wagon wheels and the movement of canvas on the breeze. She dreamed — when she slept at all — in indistinct patterns of shadow and fear.

  No one could, or would, tell her what was to happen. Every morning she woke half-expecting that there would be a battle, or that she would be sent off to Vaymouth. Each day those expectations went unfulfilled, until Anyara began to feel as if there was nothing to the world save this great encampment with the city silent and sealed beyond it, and that it could continue like this indefinitely.

  Then they brought Taim Narran to see her. The Captain of Anduran was grimy and battered. There were rents in his tunic, bruises on his face. He was clearly exhausted. Two of Aewult’s Palace Shield escorted him and stood there, all armour and pride, as he greeted Anyara.

  “Leave us,” she said to them. Both of them looked at her, but neither moved. For the first time in days her anger surged. “Get out. I am sister to a Thane, and I will talk to this man in private. Get out!”

  The two huge shieldmen glanced at one another, and after a moment’s silent consideration they retired from the tent.

  “What’s happening?” asked Taim as soon as they were out of earshot. “Has Aewult gone mad?”

  “Who can say? I’m safe enough, I think. But where’s Orisian, Taim? That’s what matters.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, anguished. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. He never reached Kolglas. I hoped… I hoped he might be here. Or still at Highfast, perhaps?”

  Anyara shook her head. The thought came to her, as it often did now, that the last time she had seen her brother she had been angry with him, frustrated at being left behind in Kolkyre. She dreaded the possibility of that being their last parting, and of anger being its tone. Somehow, it left her feeling that she owed him all the courage and discipline she could muster to face Aewult, and his father, and the whole Haig Blood if needed.

  “Gods, everything’s coming apart,” Taim muttered. “What does Roaric think he’s doing, picking fights with the Bloodheir? The Black Road’s stopped, for some reason, between here and Hommen, but when they come south, every man — every sword — will be needed if there’s to be any chance of turning them back.”

  “Perhaps they’ve come as far as they can,” Anyara said, her mind still tangled up in thoughts of Orisian.

  “No,” Taim said firmly. “They’ve overrun every obstacle put in their path. We stood for a day or two at Hommen, but we had to retire as soon as they brought up their full numbers. If Aewult hadn’t fallen all the way back here, his whole army’d have been destroyed by now. No, they’ve some reason of their own for pausing. But it’s only a pause. They’ll be here before long, and Aewult will be lucky if he’s not outnumbered when they do reach him. There’s more of them than we ever imagined was possible.”

  Anyara nodded, hardly listening. Her eyes drifted down. Where was Orisian? If the Black Road reached Kolkyre before… something pierced the veil of her preoccupation. She blinked.

  “Where’s you sword, Taim?” she asked.

  He looked down at the empty scabbard on his hip. When he lifted his head again, Anyara was not sure what she was seeing in his expression. It might almost have been shame.

  “I am a prisoner, my lady. It has been taken from me.”

  At that Coinach, who had been a silent observer thus far, stepped forwards.

  “Aewult would not dare-” he began, but Taim Narran cut him short with a sharp look.

  “The Bloodheir dares to issue commands to our Thane’s sister. Why should he hesitate to make a mere warrior his prisoner?”

  “On what grounds?” Anyara asked.

  “That I failed him at Glasbridge; brought too few men, and too late, to
his aid in battle.” Taim spoke the words without inflection, as if reporting the dry details of some dull conversation. “After we retreated from Hommen, I meant to stand again, but Aewult summoned me. And took my sword from me when I arrived.”

  One of the shieldmen outside pushed aside the flap at the tent’s entrance. He bent and stared in.

  “Enough,” he said. “Come away. The Bloodheir said a brief visit only.”

  Taim Narran did not hesitate. He gave Anyara a shallow bow, and turned to submit himself to the custody of the Palace Shield. Coinach growled in pure anger.

  “This cannot be,” he said.

  “Look to your charge, shieldman,” Taim snapped at him. “That is where your duty lies. Do not fail in it.”

  Aewult’s huge shieldman put a rough hand on Taim’s shoulder and hurried him out of the tent. Anyara followed and faced the armoured giant.

  “Listen to me,” she said as calmly and clearly as her ire would allow. “This man is an honoured warrior of my Blood, and valued by his Thane. You will treat him with respect and leave him his dignity. If not, I’ll make such trouble and noise that you will have to bind me, and put me in shackles at his side. Tell your Bloodheir that.”

  Hommen was a strange place: two distinct settlements, living uncomfortably side by side. Down on the sea’s edge, a fishing village, with a harbour wall of boulders and a short wooden quay that stood on pole-legs crusted with barnacles and weed. Up on the hillock to the south, an abandoned stone watchtower with a slate roof, and a flock of two dozen cottages clustered around it in memory of the protection it must once have offered. Linking the two, a short, straight track flanked by drystone walls. Where that track crossed the main coast road, there were gates and a toll-house for tithe-collectors, a little barracks and a hall, hay barns and a wayfarers’ inn.

  A few days ago, Kanin oc Horin-Gyre guessed, there were probably a good three hundred people who called Hommen home. Now, none. Most had already fled by the time the Black Road arrived. Those who had remained, out of sickness, or despair, or determination to defend their homes, were dead. No one had been spared this time, no prisoners taken. The army that had descended upon Hommen was a more furious beast than that which had taken Anduran or Glasbridge.