They turned to see a man on a horse not far away, waving at them in some agitation.
“Is he talking to us?” murmured Walst.
“I think he is,” Hurst said. “Better do what the man says, don’t you think?”
Before the others could say a word, he began to lope across the ground towards the horse.
27: Riding (Mia)
Mia had not thought at all about the consequences of her assignment. One barbarian was much the same as another in her eyes, and enforced sex was likely to be just as unpleasant a chore with the Warlord as it would be at Supplies, although perhaps less arduous.
But she was not afraid. Sex was sex, after all, and she knew all the usual variations from Hurst and Jonnor, and a great many less usual ones, too, from her reading. Also, from the endless discussions on the subject in the kitchen she had learned that there were rules here, even for the disorderly men at Supplies. Any man who hurt a woman, or forced her to carry out any of the less pleasant variants against her will, would be flogged for a first offence and castrated for a second. It reassured her, a little. Even Bulraney in his rage had not dared to hurt her.
She soon found, however, that being the Warlord’s woman, as she supposed she now was, earned her a degree of respect. The kitchen workers’ eyes were round when they learned where she was going, and for once they had nothing to say.
Kellen took her to Runa, with the terse command to find her some riding clothes. Mia’s spirits lifted at once. Riding! That would be a welcome change from living underground like a mole. They were not very good quality clothes, and far too big for her, but she didn’t mind. It was a pleasure to get out of the impractical gown and into comfortable trousers.
“Should I bring my things?” she asked, when she emerged from her room after changing. Kellan took one look at her rough gowns and shook his head.
“There’ll be better stuff there.”
“Where is there, exactly?” she asked.
“Warlord’s House,” he answered, but it was Runa who added, “It’s out near the Sixth Section. Quite a way.”
Mia would never have believed how good it would be to have the wind on her skin again, to feel the warmth of the sun, to see clouds scudding across the open sky. When she emerged from the caverns which had been her home for three weeks, she stood for a moment, eyes closed, savouring the sensations she hadn’t realised she had missed.
Now that she was above ground, she could see the whole of Third Section. The Commander’s House was a strange building viewed from outside, a collection of reddish six-sided towers joined together, all of different heights, as if a child had built it without quite grasping the concept of symmetry. A little further away was the Section House, a single storey rectangular building of dull brown stone, with a low square tower on one side. Dotted about the compound were stables and stores, a smithy and what looked like a brewing house, a row of stuffed sacks hanging, presumably for archery practice, and around the perimeter a high wall with men patrolling along the top and a flag at each corner snapping in the wind.
The Warlord was accompanied by six men, with two extra pack-horses. He had commandeered a horse for Mia from Bulraney, to the Commander’s obvious but suppressed annoyance. They were all mounting up when Mia arrived, and they sat astride their horses watching her.
“You can ride, I take it?” the Warlord said.
“Of course,” she replied.
No one offered to help her, but she nimbly jumped up and settled herself in the saddle, although it was higher than she was used to, being a Skirmisher style. She wondered briefly where they came by such a thing, but then remembered that these people fought against men using just such saddles, and no doubt they had captured a few horses over the years.
She adjusted her cloak neatly, and sat waiting. She thought she saw approval in the eyes of one or two of the Warlord’s escort, but he himself was expressionless. With a nod to the still fuming Bulraney, he led his troop across the compound towards the far gate, and Mia tucked in at the back of the group. The gate creaked open and they passed through onto the open plain. It felt like a kind of freedom.
They rode at a steady canter with the sun slowly sinking on their left. The Warlord rode in front, then two men leading the pack horses, then Mia, and the other four positioned themselves behind her, presumably to give chase if she made a bid for freedom. She was not minded to. All around her was empty wilderness, nothing but grassland, odd patches of scrubby woodland and unexpected swamps. Behind her, Bulraney’s towers slowly shrank, and a much smaller construction, like a collapsed Godstower, not far to the west of it, but no other buildings loomed on the horizon, although they were following a clear track. She was not about to set off alone with night coming on.
She had never been in true wilderness before, but this, she assumed, was what the entire plains had been like at one time. There had been people here for millennia, first nomadic people following the large herds of kishorn which gathered in the autumn months, and later the Petty Kings with their violent feuds and peasants scratching a living from the poor soil. Then the Word of the Gods had arrived, and brought order and civilisation and good drainage and peaceful ploughed fields. But here on the plains there was no civilisation, only the barbarians with their scattered settlements.
It was not empty of life, though. In the distance, in almost every direction, could be seen clusters of grazing animals – kishorn, horned canasts, deer of various sizes. Large plains rodents stood on any tussock watching for predators, vanishing into their burrows or mounds as the riders approached. Raptors circled overhead, and smaller birds flew up with outraged shrieks almost from under the horses’ hooves.
As dusk fell, they made camp. It was clearly a pre-arranged spot, for there was a stone-lined fire-pit, with neat heaps of dried animal droppings beside it – kishorn, she guessed, from the size. Two of the men took bows into trees not far away, and emerged later with a couple of hares and a small deer, which they neatly skinned and butchered and spitted for roasting over the fire. There was bread and some kind of dried fruit, which Mia couldn’t recognise, and a thick gruel.
After the meal, she felt a pressing need and began to walk towards the woodland. Almost immediately, two men appeared in front of her, bows primed.
“I need to relieve myself,” she said. “Do you want to watch?”
They stood aside. As she walked on, they followed behind her, but she was amused to see that they politely turned their backs when she pulled her trousers down.
When she got back to the camp, seven small shelters had been erected, no more than a few sticks covered with hide. The Warlord was waiting for her beside one of them.
“I’m afraid you have to share with me,” he said, lifting the flap and raising a sardonic eyebrow. She hesitated, and her heart thumped in sudden panic. For all her fine words in Bulraney’s tower, she was going to have to lie down with this man. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not minded for any screeching tonight.”
She crawled into the shelter, but then to her surprise he let go of the flap again and disappeared into the night. She found two thick mats laid out, each with a couple of blankets, and she had her cloak as well, and now she was glad she was not wearing her riding coat, which would have been far less comfortable to sleep in.
She made up a bed as best she could and lay down, listening to the strange night sounds of insects and birds, rattles and chirrups and scratchings, once or twice frogs croaking, and far off the howl of something bigger. But there were also male voices talking low around the fire, and that was strangely reassuring. Later, she half woke, realising that this man, the man who now owned her, who could treat her as his wife, was lying inches away from her, snoring softly. She didn’t even know his name.
~~~
The next morning produced another substantial meal – more gruel, the remains of the deer, bread and a handful of tiny red berries, sweet and juicy. Again she was followed into the bushes when she relieved herself. They brok
e camp without a word being spoken. These were men who knew each other well, she realised, men who had played out the same role many times, who trusted each other and knew exactly what was expected of each of them.
This time the Warlord waved her forwards to ride alongside him, although he said very little except once to point out grass of an unusually vivid green which concealed a swamp, and later to indicate the towers of the Fourth Section ahead. But they were not planning to stop there, it seemed.
At noon, they took a long rest, allowing the horses to graze. Two men stood watch, while the other four lay down and promptly went to sleep. Mia was reminded of Hurst, who had told her that Skirmishers always did that – resting whenever the opportunity presented itself, but only sleeping lightly, ready to be immediately alert. It seemed that barbarians had the same practice.
Mia had taken her food a little way away from the men, as much to give them the freedom from her presence as for her own need for solitude. But the Warlord came to stand beside her. For some time he simply stood, saying nothing, and she kept silence too, feeling that the onus was on him to speak first, if he wished to speak at all. She felt she had nothing to say to him.
But then he crossed his legs and sat down beside her, in one fluid movement.
“You like riding, I think,” he said.
“I do. I like being outside after so many weeks underground.”
“You were quite ill, I believe. You are completely better now?”
“I am well now.” And because that sounded a little ungracious, she added, “Thank you.” She chided herself for her rudeness. Just because she was amongst barbarians didn’t mean she had to be a savage herself.
He was silent then for some time, but she couldn’t tell whether it was a comfortable silence or not. She couldn’t read him at all. His face gave nothing away. But then, surprisingly, he became chatty.
“You know, you shouldn’t be angry with Bulraney. He’s very bitter.”
“Bitter?”
“He was the only child of a wool merchant, a very good business, as he tells the tale, and he would have had it all. He had already learned his trade, started working under his father, he was building it up, doing well. Then one night he and some friends got into a fight down at the local alehouse. Well, you’ve seen him, he’s a big man, he killed two of them without even noticing, crippled a third. Wasn’t really his fault. That’s his version, of course. But the Voices came to try him, found him guilty and here he is. He’s very bitter about that. But he picked himself up, determined to do well here, became a warrior – a pretty terrifying one, actually. Well, he scares me when the mood is on him. So you can see why he got upset when you complained about being here.”
“You mean – he was sent here? Because he killed someone?”
“Yes. Didn’t you realise? Every last one of us is here because we did something wrong. What did you think, that we all chose to come here?”
“I just assumed – that you lived here. That you’re the Vahsi. That you were born here. But that’s impossible, isn’t it?” she said in a small voice.
“Yes. No babies here. And no Vahsi. We were all born in the Karningplain, we got sent here because we transgressed in some way.”
“I didn’t,” she said quietly.
“Well, you offended someone enough for them to want to get rid of you,” he said tartly.
There was a great deal here for Mia to think about. She wondered what the Warlord had done to get himself exiled here. She realised now that his accent was different from the others, somewhat more educated, not quite so rough, although it still grated on her ears.
They rode on northwards past the Fourth Section, identical to Third, where the men on the walls waved to them. Occasionally they passed groups of riders going south, sometimes only two or three, but often twenty or more, with pack-horses. There were wagons, too, laden with sacks or barrels, always heading south. They waved to the Warlord as they passed, and he acknowledged them in return, but he didn’t stop, riding onwards for hours at a time.
She was glad she was accustomed to riding; otherwise she would have been very saddle-sore. They were going to the Sixth Section, or somewhere near it, so she guessed another two days of riding. And after that? She hoped she wouldn’t be underground again, that was as much as she could aspire to. Beyond that, she chose not to think. She calmed her mind, using her meditation methods, determined to enjoy the moment and not let fear of the future mar her pleasure in the ride. What would happen would happen, there was no escaping her fate. Not yet, anyway.
In the afternoon of the second day, they came to the Fifth Section and she noticed that the flag had five circles on it. A simple identification system - three circles at the Third Section, four at Fourth, and five at Fifth. Most of these men would be illiterate, since they were all criminals, presumably from the Lowers – farmers and herdsmen and rough craftsmen and wagon drivers and the like, she supposed. She tried to remember if she had seen any books or papers in Bulraney’s room; she thought not.
Two men came out from the compound at Fifth Section to meet them, and the Warlord and two of his men rode off to talk to someone. The remaining four stayed mounted, quietly waiting, so Mia did the same. A man brought a flask out for them, offering it to the men first and then, nervously, eyes averted, to Mia. When she drank she discovered it was a weak sort of ale, not water. It was refreshing, and she thanked him politely. He gazed at her for a moment, then lowered his eyes again and scuttled off.
The second night was much like the first, and again Mia was untouched. She wondered if he was waiting until they reached his base before taking what he undoubtedly presumed was his. Perhaps he thought a screaming woman would be embarrassing out here, where his men could hear everything. She shivered and put the thought out of her head.
Late in the morning of the third day, the Warlord drew aside from the track and onto a low mound. Mia was still riding alongside him, so she went with him and when he stopped, so did she.
“There,” he said, pointing west. “Can you see? It’s the wall.”
She shaded her eyed and stared, and could just make out a long dark line on the horizon. A little further north it stopped, and then started again not far beyond.
He had turned to watch her, and seemed to expect a reply. “There’s a gap in it,” she said, not sure what to say.
“Not much of one,” he said. “They’ve nearly finished it. We harass them, of course, but it’s easy to defend now so they keep building. When it’s complete, they’ll come out and drive us back, and we’ll have to move. Then they’ll dig in a bit nearer and start building the next wall.”
“The seventh,” she said.
“Seventh what?”
“It will be the seventh line. All down this eastern side the border is at the sixth line. In parts of the far north, it’s at the seventh already. In the west, it’s up to the ninth. They’ve been more successful there.” She looked at him slyly.
It wasn’t diplomatic to remind him about that, perhaps, but it made her smile inwardly. It was Hurst’s father, Tanist, who had led the campaign to root out the barbarians on the western border a few years ago, and there had been peace since then. If only they could do that on all the borders and get rid of these people permanently, but Hurst had told her it wasn’t possible.
The Warlord grunted, and there was a flicker of something across his face. “We know what happened in the west. Let’s go.” He wheeled his horse and rode down from the hillock, dust spurting up behind him.
Mia stayed a moment longer, gazing across at the distant wall. So close and yet it might as well be on the moon. Beyond it, Karning life went on as usual, untroubled by the barbarians. Just a few miles away, children were being born, growing up, becoming good Karningers in their turn.
Soon the wall would be complete, and there would be a celebration at the Ring that year. Another Karning secure! The builders would move in and drain the swamps and finish the Karninghold. Then the farmers would app
ear and settle on the most promising spots, roads would sweep imperiously from boundary to boundary, the sky ship way would be extended and no one would think of the barbarians at all, gradually pushed further onto the plains.
Now she was one of them, too. Just another barbarian of no account, a fly to be swatted aside.
She turned and rode after the Warlord, and the two men who had waited for her turned likewise and followed.
At the camp that night, they all sat round eating juicy moundrats, a kind of rodent. Everyone was silent, and she wondered whether that was a rule, no talking during meals. Well, she didn’t know the rules, she had a thousand questions and she didn’t care what he thought of her.
She turned to the Warlord. “Why do you fight them?”
Before he could reply, one of the men replied, “Because we hate them!” and several others laughed.
The Warlord was impassive, as always. “We fight them because we must. What else can we do?”
“Make your own Karnings,” she said at once, although she was sure the question was rhetorical. “Build permanent homes, farm the land, raise pigs. Or follow the kishorn, like the Old Ones used to do. Or even go back to your homes, claim what’s yours.”
The fire crackled as a log shifted. She wondered if he would be angry at her impertinence, but when he answered he was as composed as always.
“Do you imagine these things have never been tried? Everyone thinks about going back, and many have done it, too. It’s not hard to find a way past the wall. But where do you go? We’re all marked, every one of us, we’re all supposed to be dead. There’s nowhere to hide there, nowhere beyond the reach of the law. There are Slaves in every village, every craft town, every Karninghold. Those who’ve gone back in return here sooner or later. One way or another.” He looked sideways at her. “Damaged, if they’re lucky. In pieces, quite often.”
He tossed his chewed moundrat bones into the flames, then wrapped his arms round his knees. The firelight flickered across his face, creating grotesquely dancing patterns. He sat so still he might have been a statue.
The Plains of Kallanash Page 27
