The Plains of Kallanash

by Pauline M. Ross

  “The Gods decide,” he said with a shrug. “Who knows why?”

  “But you don’t believe that.” She made it a statement, not a question.

  “I find it odd,” he said slowly, “that the Gods would intervene in that way. It’s so direct. I mean, they choose people all the time, we find fallers in skirmishes who are marked, Tella was marked, but that sort of thing comes out of nowhere. This – asking the Gods to make a decision and they do, well, that’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly!” she said in triumph, as if she had scored a hit. They all stared at her, bewildered, but Drantior chuckled.

  “Missa,” he said, shaking his head, “just tell them.”

  “Oh, all right. There is a theory that it’s not so much the Gods themselves who do all this, but the Slaves.”

  “The Slaves?” Gantor’s forehead creased, and then cleared. “Ah! You mean—?”

  “Exactly!” she said again, chortling at them.

  “I don’t get it,” Trimon said.

  “S’easy,” Gantor said. “Slaves get to the faller first, everyone else has to keep away so they can do something – poison, I’d guess.”

  “Probably,” Missandra said.

  “So the Gods tell the Slave which one they’ve chosen, but the Slave does the actual… well, the business?” said Trimon.

  “Something like that,” Missandra said with a vague wave of the hand.

  “But what about the mark? There’s always a mark, isn’t there? Do the Slaves do that too?”

  “I’d guess that’s a result of the poison. It probably denotes the point of entry. It’s usually around the neck or shoulders.”

  “So if someone else gets there first and unfastens the shirt, they would see that there was no mark, see?” said Gantor impatiently. “So they can’t do anything. And if there’s no Slave—”

  “—they can’t do anything,” finished Walst, then added under his breath, “Fucking Slaves! They’re into everything.”

  “I think it’s more that they don’t want anyone to see what they’re doing,” Missandra said. “If the faller is already surrounded by people when they get there, they can’t do anything without it being seen. They have to get there first, with everyone well back, then they can do whatever it is unobserved.”

  “So all we have to do,” Hurst said slowly, “is make sure there’s a Slave close by, and that no one else gets to Jonnor first?”

  “Exactly!” beamed Missandra. “Are there any more of those little seed cakes?”

  After Drantior and Missandra had gone off to coo over the children again, Hurst and his three Companions planned their tactics.

  “So – we need a Slave nearby,” said Trimon, “and not too many other people around. That’s going to be tricky. Now that their arrows have all gone, Torman, Cole and Zanikor are going to be hovering round Jonnor like flies round meat.”

  “Well, we have plenty of time,” Gantor said.

  “True enough,” said Hurst. “We can take as long as we like over it, and get everything right this time. We only have three days here anyway, and then we’re off south. We could wait until we get back, if you want to, Trimon?”

  “No bother to me,” he shrugged. “I can pop him whenever you like.”

  “Well then,” said Hurst, “let’s give it a go. Maybe not today, since this rain looks set in for the whole day, and we could all do with a training session without any threat of incidents. But tomorrow, if you like, or the next day, if you can be sure to get a clear shot. Walst, you stay with Trimon, be his second pair of eyes, make sure everything’s perfect. Gantor and I will try to make sure those three don’t interfere when Jonnor goes down.”

  “We could ask the Hundred Leaders to help with that, you know,” said Gantor.

  “Good idea. Right, so that’s settled,” Hurst said, but then he chewed his lip thoughtfully. “You know, now that I’m safe, this might be a good time to see if we can call this off.”

  “You’re joking, right?” said Walst. “Call it off? After five arrows?”

  “Now that Jonnor’s the only one at risk, he might be more willing to talk,” Hurst said. “You never know. Maybe I’ll try him this evening, when his belly’s full of wine.”

  But when they went to the training grounds that afternoon, there was a surprise awaiting them. Jonnor was deeply engaged in sword practice with one of the more experienced Skirmishers, with a Hundred Leader watching over them and a couple of Slaves nearby, but he was otherwise alone. His three Companions were scattered about, busy with their own training exercises.

  “Well, looks quite ordinary, doesn’t it?” Gantor said with a bark of laughter.

  “He’s on his own,” whispered Trimon. “Want me to stick him?”

  “No. Let’s keep to the plan. I need a normal day, for a change. Spear, I think. Gantor, you want to take me on?”

  “Fine by me. Less painful than swordwork.”

  “It’s only your height gives you an edge with the spear, you know,” grinned Walst. “Don’t fool yourself it’s skill.”

  “You’re just jealous, shorty. What are you two going to do?”

  “I’ll be down at the targets,” said Trimon, and strode off.

  “Like he needs the practice,” said Walst, rolling his eyes. “But I do.” And he followed Trimon to the archery targets.

  Hurst spent some time with Gantor, then they moved on to other partners. He was concentrating, so it took some time to realise there was something going on. Gradually, he became aware that people were stopping what they were doing, turning, looking across the grounds. As the clash of weapons died away, he heard the shouting, louder and more sustained than any trainer giving instructions. It seemed to be coming from the archery section.

  He and Gantor dropped their spears and threaded their way through the frozen clusters of men, splashing through the mud. As they got nearer they began to make out odd words and then complete phrases and eventually the whole scene came into view. Trimon was standing at the line, pulling arrows from his quiver, nocking them, drawing and then shooting, in a steady rhythm. Pull, nock, draw, fire. Pull, nock, draw, fire. Pull, nock, draw, fire. His concentration was total. Beside him, restrained by Walst and another man, was Jonnor, shouting at the top of his voice.

  “Come on, you fucking coward, I’m right here! What’s the matter with you? Let’s get this settled once and for all. Fuck you, Trimon, you fucking bastard, just do it!”

  All around them, men stood open-mouthed.

  Jonnor suddenly caught sight of Hurst.

  “At last! What’s the matter with you people, have you gone soft all of a sudden? Come on, let’s get this over with. I’m making it easy for you, so let’s not mess about. For the Gods’ sake, Hurst, tell him to get the arrow out!”

  Abruptly, Trimon lowered his bow and spun round to face Hurst. “Give the word and I’ll fucking do it, too! Anything to shut him up!”

  “See?” shouted Jonnor. “He wants to do it, I want him to do it, what are you waiting for?”

  “Maybe we should talk about this, brother?” Hurst said, but Jonnor just snorted.

  “Talk? Bit late for that! The time for talking is over. Come on, Hurst, give him the fucking order and get this fucking business over with. I’m not hiding away, I’m right here. It’ll be the easiest shot he’s ever taken, but just fucking do it and let’s finish this.”

  “We don’t have to do this,” Hurst said desperately. “We can still come to some arrangement…”

  Jonnor leaned forward until he was nose to nose with Hurst. “Never!” he spat. “You wanted me dead, you started all this, you’ll not wriggle out of it now, brother. If you want Mia, you’re going to have to kill me first.”

  For an age they stood there, inches apart, breathing heavily. Hurst tried frantically to think of some way out, some way to persuade Jonnor to listen, to be reasonable. Yet some part of him knew that he was right. He had chosen this path, now he had to follow it to the bitter end. He stood back
.

  “Very well. Trimon, in your own time. Gantor, Walst, move everyone back. Where are the Slaves?”

  “Over there,” said Gantor.

  Jonnor walked back into the middle of the training ground until he was almost as far from Trimon as the archery target, and then turned to face him. He made no attempt to shield himself, standing fully exposed, legs apart, arms by his side, his expression still angry. Everyone nearby quickly scattered into a wide circle, leaving Jonnor isolated and alone. Two Slaves stood near Trimon, and a couple more were pushing through the circle on the opposite side.

  Trimon reached into his quiver and pulled out another smaller quiver. From there he slowly drew out the last Blue Arrow, and nocked it. He carefully positioned himself and drew his bow.

  Hurst could hardly breathe. In all his imaginings of this moment, he had never once thought it would come to this, in full public view, in anger and bitterness. Even the dreary rain seemed appropriate for such an ending. He had a piercing instant of regret that ten years of marriage should finish in this way. If only Tella had not died. If only Jonnor had been more accommodating. If only he had loved Mia less. If only…

  The arrow flew. It hit Jonnor full on the chest. For a second nothing happened, then he crumpled straight down. Everyone waited. The Slaves – there were even more of them now – circled in towards Jonnor. No one else moved. It seemed to Hurst, waiting in a fury of suspense, that it took forever for the Slaves to get close to Jonnor’s unconscious form. He fretted, for he was face down in the mud, and the trained soldier in him wanted to make sure he could breathe. But at last one of them – the Karninghold Slave himself, he thought – knelt down beside Jonnor.

  “Watch what he does,” Gantor whispered. “Missandra will want a full report.”

  Hurst waved him impatiently to silence. What did it matter now? Even so, he observed the Slave gently turn Jonnor over, remove the gorget and loosen the gear round his throat. Then he seemed to be feeling around his neck and shoulders with long bony fingers. His amber ring shimmered a little, raindrops sparkling on it. He stood up again, and conferred with some of the other Slaves.

  “What did he do?” Trimon whispered. “Did he do anything? I couldn’t see.”

  “No idea,” Gantor shrugged.

  Jonnor’s three Companions materialised alongside them, and they stood, all seven of them, waiting. One of the Healing Slaves came over.

  “He’s looking fine,” she said. “We just have to wait. Do you want to send for Most High Mia?”

  Hurst shook his head, remembering her strained face when he had woken the day before. Was it only yesterday? It felt like longer. “It would only distress her. It’s better she doesn’t know until… “

  “Very well, Most High,” the Slave replied. “If you think it best.”

  Almost immediately, Hurst thought better of it. “Actually… I believe she would want to be here – if anything happens.”

  “I’ll find her,” Walst said.

  “No need, I can send one of the guards.”

  “I’d rather go myself. Better than standing around here.” With that, he was gone.

  By the time Mia arrived, the Slaves had deemed Jonnor safe to approach, and they were gathered around him. He lay on his side, his face pale, but his breathing was steady. There was no suggestion to move him, for although the rain was a nuisance, it would not harm him. Mia knelt down beside him, oblivious of the mud, and stroked his wet hair.

  “May I hold him?” she asked the Slaves, and the Healing Slave nodded.

  Gently she lifted his head onto her lap, and stroked his face, sobbing a little, her tears mingling with the rain. Hurst wondered for a moment if she had cried so much over his prostrate body, and then sharply reproved himself for such thoughts. He remembered how red her eyes had been. She had certainly grieved just as much for him, even though her love was all for Jonnor.

  Suddenly Trimon elbowed him sharply. “Look!” He knelt down and lifted the edge of Jonnor’s shirt. Hurst heard an indrawn breath from Torman. For there on one shoulder, clear as the moon, was the dark outline of the mark of the Gods. And in that instant, Jonnor gave a little choking gasp, and then another, and then – nothing. His breathing stopped.

  Mia lifted her face to the falling rain and howled her anguish.

  19: Before Dawn (Mia)

  The Slaves took Jonnor’s body away to be prepared in private for burning. Mia would not see him again until he was on his way to the funeral tower.

  Her grief was too deep for tears. She moved as in a dream, unknowing, uncaring, letting her Companions lead her along. They took her to the family water rooms and bathed her and dressed her in the white mourning robe and tied the white scarves over her hair, and she stood passively under their hands. Then they too bathed and arrayed themselves in white, and went to the family hall to await the bell.

  Hurst was there, of course. She couldn’t look at him. The blame was his, after all. He had taken Jonnor away from her, and even though the reality had fallen short of her dreams, he had been her husband. And she loved him, she reminded herself.

  For all her misery, though, it was also a relief that the hideous time of waiting was over and the worst had happened. Perhaps in time she could begin to look to the future again.

  Jonnor’s Companions were waiting in the courtyard, their faces drawn. It was a difficult business for them, trained for war, prepared to die at the point of a barbarian’s sword, but now expected to lie down and passively await death beside Jonnor. And for what? Because he had not wanted to share his wife. But he would need them in the Life Beyond Death; that was their role, to support him there, and they understood the honour.

  The Silent Guards brought the bier into the courtyard, and one by one they all walked forward to gaze once more on Jonnor’s face, tranquil in death. His hair, dry now, wreathed his face in soft dark curls, and his skin was only a little paler than usual. When Mia had been quite young, one of the elderly women living with them, the remnant of a long-broken marriage, had died, and her face was grey, devoid of all life. But Jonnor was not like that; he might have been asleep.

  They were all required to touch the strange irregular mark on Jonnor’s shoulder. Mia noticed the tiny red point at the centre of it, and remembered seeing the same on Tella, but she had no idea what it meant. Maybe nothing.

  The procession passed through the narrow funeral gate in the outer wall. The Karninghold Slave walked in front with a pair of acolytes, then the Silent Guards carrying the bier, then Torman, Cole and Zanikor, their faces as white as their gowns, and two more Slaves behind.

  After that, there was the long night to get through. Jonnor had wanted to stand vigil for Tella through the hours of darkness, and Mia felt she could do no less for him. So when the Slaves had performed their chants and withdrawn, and the Companions had drifted away, she stayed on the balcony overlooking the funeral tower.

  She had expected Hurst to leave too, but he lingered, sitting silently on a bench, a goblet of wine in his hand. She set a cushion down and sat, letting her thoughts drift. The rain had long stopped, and the broken clouds were streaked with red and vivid orange.

  “You should eat something, you know,” Hurst said after a while, making her jump. “You have had nothing since noon, I daresay. May I get you some fruit? Or a little wine? It will help if you are to be up all night.”

  Her first impulse was to refuse, but she saw the sense in it and, to her surprise, she realised she was hungry. For an instant, she wondered if it was proper to eat, or whether that somehow made a mockery of her grief, but pragmatism intervened. At one end of the balcony various foodstuffs waited on a table, so she sat while Hurst picked out choice pieces of fruit and slices of meat for her. She drank a little wine, too, but when she reached for some bread, he stopped her.

  “Not that, it will make you sleepy. And not too much wine. We need to stay alert tonight.”

  “Do we?”

  “We do, for we are going to watch for strang
e movements in the tower, and we don’t want to fall asleep.”

  It was the last thing she had expected him to say. She had feared he might try to apologise for killing Jonnor, or, even worse, to express his love somehow. But this – it was quite unexpected.

  “You are going to stay here with me?” she said. “All night?”

  “Of course,” he said, in a tone of surprise.

  “And you believe that I saw something last time?”

  “Of course,” he said again. “As to what you saw, that I cannot vouch for, but this is our best opportunity to find out.”

  So they stood vigil, taking it in turns to watch the funeral tower carefully while the other rested. But the night wore away with no signs of life at all, just the blue lights caused by the mysterious vapour burning steadily in the tower windows.

  The first lightening of the sky had already begun, and she was half meditating and half dozing, when he suddenly nudged her awake.

  “There! Quick, look there! Something’s there!”

  And so it was, people moving around in the funeral tower, sometimes silhouetted against the blue lights and sometimes less clear, behind them.

  “Two – I see two…” Hurst murmured. “No, three.”