The Plains of Kallanash

by Pauline M. Ross

  Delnor threw his hands in the air in surrender, tore off his helmet and mailed gloves and stalked away. He stopped by Bulraney, who had watched everything in glowering silence, and the two whispered together for a minute, then they turned and walked away from the noisy group congratulating Walst, and passed close by Hurst, Gantor and Trimon, standing quietly together.

  “They think they’re so clever, these Skirmishers,” Bulraney said loudly enough to be heard. His eyes sought Hurst’s and held them for a long moment. Then he strode off.

  “What did we do to upset him?” Gantor murmured.

  Later that morning, Hurst was working with one of the newly promoted untrained warriors, a young man of about seventeen, practising some of the basic low sword strokes, when Bulraney appeared. For a while he simply stood watching as they worked – thrust, parry, thrust, parry, over and over, teaching a degree of automation to the muscles and confidence to the mind. Hurst was so engrossed, he had almost forgotten the Commander was there, until Bulraney suddenly said, “Higher, boy! Keep your sword up!”

  Nervously, with a glance at Hurst, he raised his sword a little.

  “No, no! Up here, you fucking idiot!” And Bulraney clouted his elbow with his stick until the sword was at what he considered the proper height. “Better. Now keep it there.” And he glared at Hurst, as if defying him to contradict him.

  “All right, Ranniff,” Hurst said calmly, “let’s try that. Come at me.”

  Gamely, Ranniff did, sword swinging around his head. Hurst neatly parried, rolled to one side and poked his own sword into Ranniff’s exposed side.

  “So now you’re dead,” Hurst said, rolling up onto his feet in one fluid motion. “Low is better, until you know what you’re doing. Shall we go back to what we were practising?”

  Ranniff looked uncertainly from Hurst to Bulraney and back again. Bulraney had gone purple.

  “Are you questioning my authority here?” he bellowed. Ranniff instinctively jumped back two paces, even though it wasn’t aimed at him.

  “Not at all,” Hurst said. “Only your knowledge of swordwork.” And then, belatedly, added, “Sir.”

  Bulraney strode forward until he was practically touching Hurst. He was a head taller and twice the width, and Hurst was uneasily aware that it was all muscle.

  “You fucking Skirmishers!” he hissed. “You think you’re so much better than everyone else, don’t you? You turn up out of fucking nowhere, and we’re supposed to just bend over for you, I suppose.”

  Hurst stepped back, one hand raised placatingly, but Bulraney was as unstoppable as a stampeding kishorn.

  “You think you know everything! Low is better, says you. Ha! I’ve been in more battles than you’ve had pimples, I daresay, and I could put you in the dirt with one hand tied behind my back, Skirmisher!”

  Hurst laughed. He knew it was a mistake, but Bulraney looked so ridiculous with his bulging eyes and the muscles in his neck standing out and his spitting anger, he just couldn’t help it.

  “I’d like to see you try,” he said.

  For just an instant, Bulraney’s face registered surprise. Then he hurled his stick at Hurst and drew his sword.

  Within seconds, Hurst found that he and Bulraney were the centre of a huge empty space, ringed by white-faced warriors scrambling clear. Hurst leapt backwards to put himself out of range.

  “’Ware battle sword!” someone shouted.

  “Noted!” Hurst called back, but he didn’t need to be told. It was his own sword wielded against him, and although it looked much like any other Skirmisher sword, apart from the Karningholder jewels on the hilt, he knew it was fashioned from the finest metals, and perfectly balanced. And razor sharp. But it was designed for him and his preference for carrying his sword on his back in its special scabbard, ready to draw, so it was shorter than average, too short, probably, for a man of Bulraney’s size.

  Bulraney moved slowly forward, and Hurst backed away, matching him step for step. He tried to remember what was behind him. There were barrels not too far away marking the edge of the training grounds, and he hoped someone would warn him before he reversed into them. He began to circle around, so that he was backing in a different direction, never taking his eyes from Bulraney.

  “Shield!” a voice called. He could see from the corner of his eye someone holding it out, ready for him to slip onto his arm. He risked a quick dash across, but barely got hold of it before Bulraney was on him. It was enough, and after a brief clash of swords, he was able to jump out of reach again and get the shield properly in place. Someone gave Bulraney a shield too, but he barely needed it. He was clad from head to toe in full battle gear, with only the gorget missing. Presumably he hadn’t found one big enough to fit his ox-like neck. Hurst was bare-headed, with nothing but reinforced leather for protection elsewhere. On his hands were his thin fingerless leather gloves.

  It was outrageous, of course, to draw a battle sword on a man without mail or helmet and armed only with a practice sword. For a Skirmisher, it was one of the few offences punishable by execution, but then Karning Law hardly applied here. There were rules, and the Warlord was the final arbiter, but here and now, Bulraney was the law. Hurst suspected that Bulraney would pay no penalty, even if he were to kill a man. And how was he to avoid that outcome? On level terms, he knew he could beat Bulraney easily, but with only a practice sword… He had his knives at his belt, of course, but his axes were sitting under his bed, and Bulraney had even more weaponry on him. It was not promising.

  Hurst had spent several weeks taking one reckless decision after another, thoughtless of his own safety, not even caring if he died, but now that the reality was upon him, he found that he cared more than he’d realised. Or perhaps it was simply a wish not to die arbitrarily at the whim of a callous man like Bulraney. If I go, he thought savagely, then I’m taking you with me. You’re going to have to work for this. And, as always, whether in battle or in a skirmish or in the tournament, his mind cleared and his focus intensified and his world narrowed to these few square yards of dirt and the man arrogantly proposing to kill him with his own sword.

  Calmly, as he made a few easy thrusts to test Bulraney’s reach, he ran through possibilities in his mind. He regretted now that he hadn’t paid more attention when the man was training. But still, he knew enough to be sure that he was not Skirmisher trained. Probably he depended more on his size and strength than on skill, but experience had taught him that big men could be surprisingly fast and light on their feet. Nor could he depend on endurance, for Bulraney was at least as fit as he was. But as they exchanged exploratory parries, he could see that Bulraney favoured his right side, attacking Hurst’s left almost exclusively. His weight and the heavy gear would be an advantage, too, if he could ever get him on the ground, for he would surely be slow to rise. But the sword was a problem. A single mistake would cost him his life.

  He knew the instant Bulraney switched to a more serious attack, no longer testing him but intent on real injury. He could see it in his eyes. But Bulraney misjudged it, probably because he was used to a longer sword, and Hurst was able to turn the sword aside, step nimbly out of the way of Bulraney’s bulk and allow his momentum to carry him past. Had he also had a battle sword, his opponent would have been dead, but as it was all he could do was clout the back of his knees hard enough to bring him down. It was not enough, for although Bulraney dropped to his knees, he kept hold of his sword and even from the ground had the strength to bring it round quickly enough to nick Hurst on the arm before he could scramble aside. He heard the gasp from the watching crowd, and felt warm blood trickle down his arm. It was his shield arm, fortunately, and he barely noticed.

  Bulraney, however, was now enraged beyond caution. With a roar of anger, he boiled back to his feet and rushed full tilt at Hurst, hurling his shield away to bring both hands to bear on the sword, raised above his head. Hurst waited until he was almost on him, then rolled to the ground and took out Bulraney’s feet. Another roll brough
t him round to the side. Bulraney had gone sprawling but he was already half up. Hurst clouted him on the side of the head with his shield and then, when he was unbalanced, hit his wrist hard enough to dislodge the sword. Jumping to his feet, a kick in the face had Bulraney flat on his back, a boot on his chest, Hurst’s sword at his throat.

  “Yield!” he shouted, just in case anyone was in doubt of the situation.

  For a long moment, the two men glared at each other, chests heaving. Then Bulraney raised his hands in submission. Hurst nodded his acknowledgement, and tossing shield and sword aside in disgust, turned and strode away.

  He had not gone many steps before he realised it was not over. He felt, rather than saw, what was happening – some slight movement in the crowd, eyes turning in horror back to Bulraney, an audible intake of breath. He whipped round to see Bulraney bearing down on him, sword in hand again. This time Hurst had no sword, no shield, no defences. He was not near enough to the ring of spectators to find help, or to hide in the crowd. He was out of options. In desperation he reached for his knives. They were standard issue Skirmisher daggers, but designed as much to be thrown as used for stabbing. He had time to get one into each hand. He had no hope of injuring Bulraney, fully armoured as he was, but he had to slow him down at the very least to give himself time to grab a sword again. So he aimed squarely for the head, forcing Bulraney to duck, and perhaps breaking his momentum. He fired them off without a pause, first one then the other, and then turned and ran for the closest man holding a sword, grabbed it from his astonished hands and swung round, prepared to fight for his life all over again.

  There was no need. One of the knives had, by some miracle, caught Bulraney on the side of the neck. Even as Hurst watched, he dropped slowly to the ground, twitched a few times and was still. It didn’t need the rapidly spreading pool of blood to tell the tale. Bulraney was dead.

  33: The Plains (Mia)

  Mia woke to see Dethin lying beside her, his eyes on her face.

  “Good morning,” he said, and then he smiled. She was surprised to see how much younger and more approachable he looked so, but his eyes crinkled at the corners in a way which reminded her distressingly of Hurst. For an instant she felt her loss like a physical pain.

  “Not up and about yet?” she asked, smiling weakly. “Is it still early?” But the sun was well above the horizon, she could tell by the shadows.

  “I’m taking a day off,” he said. “I thought you might like to go for a ride.”

  “Oh yes,” she breathed. “Yes, please!”

  She dressed quickly in trousers and a tunic with split sides, and the more solid of her two pairs of boots. It lifted her spirits beyond all measure to have the prospect of a little freedom from the compound for a few hours, and the chance to wear sensible clothes again was by no means the least of it.

  Dethin eyed her with interest as they descended the stairs to the canteen.

  “Where did you find that outfit?”

  “In the basement. I had to make some adjustments.”

  “It fits you nicely, and I like that longer tunic. You’re clever with a needle. If you have more like that, I don’t have any objection to you wearing them more often, if you want to, but… you may get some comments. It’s not usual here, most of the women wear skirts. It’s only out at Supplies that they prefer trousers.”

  “Well, they’re more practical, I suppose,” she said, a bit puzzled.

  “It’s not that – well, not just that,” he said, and stopped abruptly on a half landing. “At Supplies, the women have to do a lot of the work and provide the usual services to the men. Wearing a gown is seen as an invitation, so they tend to wear trousers most of the time.”

  He turned and continued down the stairs, but she followed more slowly, somewhat unsettled. She knew little about Supplies, for few people talked about it, but there were rumours and hearsay about how unruly it was. For men and women alike, it was a serious punishment to be sent there.

  They had a quick meal in the almost deserted canteen, and then went straight to the stables. Two men sweeping dropped their brooms and leapt to saddle the horses for them.

  “Just us?” she said, realising that his usual entourage was not accompanying them. Was that unusual? The two stable hands seemed surprised, she thought, as she caught them exchanging glances.

  “This is a pleasure ride,” he said. “Nothing formal.” But his inscrutable mask was back, and she wondered if she’d said the wrong thing.

  They left by the east gate and headed directly into the sun. On either side two small hunting paths disappeared into the long grass, but ahead the track was broad and straight, rutted by cartwheels and churned by hooves. It was dry and hard today, and she rode with care, trying to avoid the most uneven patches. Dethin had soon left her behind. Eventually he stopped and she caught up with him, a little breathless.

  “Sorry,” was all he said, and after that he rode more slowly, or, when he forgot and pulled ahead anyway, he noticed sooner and waited for her.

  They stopped late in the morning by a patch of straggly bushes to relieve themselves and drink from their flasks, but then they rode on, and Mia began to wonder if they were going somewhere in particular. Twice they passed a Godstower not far away, marking the location of the tunnel below.

  “Do these tunnels run all the way to the Crested Mountains?” she asked when they were walking the horses to rest them.

  “No, only a few miles more from here. But they’re still building them.”

  “They? Your people or theirs?”

  “Theirs. We have access to the tunnel around Sixth Section and Supplies, but they have everything else. During the winter quiet, they close off the whole tunnel, and that’s when their people go to and fro, taking materials out to the far end of the tunnels.”

  “Who builds the towers, then?”

  “They do. They’re building the one beyond Supplies at the moment.”

  “So whenever they secure a new Karning, they move you back and there’s another tower ready to move into?”

  “Yes. It’s a dance, that’s all, but they’re playing the music. Although sometimes they change the tune. Three years ago they joined forces on the western side and completely wiped out Western. Obliterated it. Six, seven hundred fighting men killed, and who knows how many others. Women, kitchen workers, stable hands…”

  Mia’s eyes widened. That was the famous victory that Hurst boasted about, when his father decisively defeated the Vahsi and brought peace to the west. Not quite so glorious from this side of the walls. Hundreds killed, and all of them Karningers just like the Skirmishers they fought. A dance, indeed, but who exactly called the steps and played the music?

  “I didn’t realise,” she said quietly.

  “They can do that anytime they want, and we have no answer. They’re better equipped, better organised, better trained. We get a few Skirmishers here, but they’re usually not very good. Their rejects, I think. We manage when we only have to fight one Karning at a time, but when they get together they’re unbeatable.”

  “So why don’t they do that more often?”

  “I’ve often wondered that myself.” And he remounted and kicked his horse into a canter.

  As they went further east, the flat landscape began to be dotted with cayshorn islands. Cayshorn trees had large protruding roots near the trunk, and when one managed to become established on the windblown plains, it accumulated dirt around the roots which built over the years into a sizeable mound. Young trees then seeded on the mound and over time a large treed island could arise. Nearer the Karnings the movements of people and kishorn had largely eradicated them, but elsewhere they were more common, poking up above the waving grass stems like sailed ships. Mia had seen pictures of them, but it was different to see them in real life.

  They stopped at one near the track to eat and rest for a while. From the top, the towers of the Warlord’s House were just visible. Beyond that a dust cloud marked the progress of the main kish
orn herd, slowly moving north for the winter. To the south, smaller groups of kishorn or deer or canasts could be seen. Dotted about were a number of moundrat hills. But to the east, only a few miles away, was another walled compound with its tower.

  “Supplies,” Dethin said, before she could ask.

  “Are we going there?”

  “Gods, no. I only go there when I have to check everything is in order, and I certainly wouldn’t take you there. They manage their own affairs, and as long as food and other goods get through to us, we don’t interfere.”

  They sat under the shade of a cayshorn tree, their backs against the smooth trunk, the delicate leaves above them dry and rattling. A few had already fallen and were gathering in heaps against the exposed roots. For a while they were silent, but Mia was always a little afraid of the reclusive side of Dethin, so when he shifted position and she realised he was not asleep, she said, “Have you been Warlord a long time, Crannor?”

  He opened his eyes, and she thought his mouth quirked a little at the use of his old name. “Twelve – no, thirteen years, now,” he said.

  “Do you like it? Being Warlord?”

  “Better than being in Supplies or the kitchens. When I first arrived at Sixth, I was very resentful for a while. Like you, I suppose. Railed against my fate, the usual. But I got no sympathy, I was no different from anyone else. After about six months, I realised that I was stuck here and I might as well make the most of it. I was Skirmisher trained so it was easy enough to get myself up to Captain, and I was Commander of Sixth inside four years. Three years after that I was Warlord.”

  She ran through the numbers in her head and realised that he was younger than she’d thought. He couldn’t be any older than Hurst.