The Plains of Kallanash

by Pauline M. Ross

  “True, but it unbalances things to have so many arrive at once, and not the usual way.”

  “Like us,” Hurst said, one eyebrow raised.

  “Like you four, yes. It’s unsettling. Disruptive.”

  “Well, let’s hope Tanist devises a plan before it comes to that, because I can’t tell my own father to go away.”

  “As Commander, it’s your job to do exactly that, if necessary,” Dethin said at once, “and his job is to obey you. Whatever he was before, he’s the most junior warrior in the Section now.”

  Hurst found no answer to that.

  ~~~

  It had been a long day, and Mia was glad to get to bed. The two men were different tonight, still talking over the day’s events as they undressed, just like brothers, she thought. Well, in truth they were cousins, and if things had gone otherwise they would have been friends for many years. This time she took care of Dethin first, but she was very aware of Hurst on the other side of the bed, patiently waiting for her. Afterwards, she lay curled in his arms as he stroked her hair and kissed her forehead, while Dethin peacefully slept.

  She woke the next morning in the predawn gloom to find Dethin scrabbling into his boots.

  “You’re up early,” she murmured, still half asleep.

  “Got to stretch my horse’s legs a bit,” he said. “Be back this afternoon. Don’t start the war without me.” He grinned at her, looking unexpectedly boyish, and then he was gone.

  Hurst and Mia were in no hurry to abandon the bed, so again they were late arriving at the canteen. Apart from Hemmond, who had already found his place in the stables, all the new arrivals were there, a big group of Skirmishers sprawled out on the battered wooden chairs, chatting and joking together, quite relaxed. A little distance apart, the Captains stood silently waiting.

  “So, what’s on the agenda for today?” Tanist said with a grin, stretching his arms and folding them behind his head. “D’you want us to have a look at your procedures first, see where things need tightening up, or shall we just start training up your men?”

  “Porridge first,” said Hurst. “Ah, thank you, Gantor.” He looked across at his father’s group, and then he looked towards the Captains. Even Mia, who knew little of warrior affairs, felt there was some tension in the air.

  “Captain Heddizan,” Hurst said, “what is the usual procedure for new arrivals?”

  “Assessment, Sir. Two to three weeks is the usual before assignment. Training grounds to start with – battle skills in various weaponry, fitness, discipline, obedience. If they fail that…” Someone made a choking sound, and he stopped. There was silence. Mia was aware that everyone in the room was motionless, watching them.

  “Go on,” Hurst said.

  Heddizan hesitated. “Thing is, Sir – don’t doubt their skills, and those three are fine,” and he nodded towards Mannigor and his Mentors, “but – we don’t usually get anyone so…” He tailed off helplessly, looking at Tanist and his three Companions.

  “So old?” Tanist said, his eyes twinkling, arms folded across his broad chest. “I’m a bit long in the tooth for this game, you think?”

  Hurst laughed. “Tell you what, Heddizan, you can have charge of assessing them. Yes, you. I’ll accept whatever your judgement is. If you think they ought to go to Supplies, then off to Supplies they’ll go. And you can start by taking on this old man in single combat. All right?”

  “Ten bones on the old ‘un,” said Walst instantly, and the room dissolved into a chaos of shouted bets and bawdy jokes about the two combatants, as the men all streamed out to the training grounds.

  Mia slipped out of the canteen by a different door and up narrow twisting stairs to the women’s quarters. The low tower above the Section House belonged only to them. Above the cubicles where they did their evening work was a floor of bedrooms, each no bigger than one of the cubicles, but a precious private space to its owner. The floor above that was a large sitting room. All the women in the compound were allowed in here, and Mia knew it gave the best view of the training grounds. Several women were there, sewing or just chatting, but they drifted across to the window to watch when Mia explained what was happening.

  At first, all Mia could see was a great jostle of men milling about raising dust, but after a while the crowd coalesced into a large circle with two men in the middle. Heddizan was obvious by his yellow sash, and to start with all the activity was his. He would dash forward, there would be a brief clash and then he would jump away again. Tanist hardly seemed to move at all. But then, gradually, he began to circle around.

  It reminded Mia of a farmer she had once seen catching an escaped piglet. The animal had shot about with great speed, first in one direction, then another, while the farmer quietly and with great economy of movement directed it into a corner. So it was with Tanist. In no time, Heddizan was backed up against some wagons, and then with the barest flick of his wrist, Tanist put him in the dirt. He got up, began again with great energy, and in a very short time was down again. The third time Tanist disarmed him and put his sword to his throat. Mia could hear the cheer erupting from the crowd and smiled to herself. Walst had won his bones then, and age and experience had, it seemed, defeated youthful over-confidence.

  Mia wandered across to a west-facing window. Beyond the compound wall the dust was being raised again in a hustle of dismantling and packing.

  “They’re leaving us alone, then,” said a throaty voice behind her. “Better that way. Not natural, all this talking to the enemy. I’m Mallissa, by the way.”

  “Oh – Hurst’s woman!”

  She laughed. “Not sure about that! You seem to have him on a leading rope, him and the Warlord both. How’s that working out, then?”

  Mia smiled, aware that several of the other women were watching the exchange with interest. “It’s fine, actually.”

  “When the Warlord leaves – you’ll be going with him, will you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mia said. “Do you want Hurst back, is that it?”

  Mallissa laughed even more. “One man’s much the same as another to me, but I like living in the Commander’s House. Don’t want to go back to the Section House, so if you’re staying, tell him that, will you?”

  ~~~

  “So where’s this Warlord of yours gone?” Tanist asked when they all gathered for the noon meal.

  “He said he wanted to exercise his horse,” Mia said.

  Tanist raised an eyebrow. “Really? It’s hardly been idle for weeks… well, not my concern. I’m just a lowly old warrior.”

  “Still handy with a sword, though,” she smiled.

  “Skirmisher training – it never leaves you. Groonerst isn’t quite fit enough now for real fighting, but the rest of us are still up to it. Do you have chores to do this afternoon? Because Hurst has asked to see the maps we brought, the ones we marked all the tunnels on, and you might find it interesting.”

  The maps were the best quality stiffened cloth, with hemmed edges and the fine detail hand-painted in waterproof ink, the type that only the border Karnings got. They were large, showing every Karninghold, every craft or manufacturing centre, every mill and inn, every village and road. Swamps and woodland and permanent rivers were marked in bold colours, transient waterways were paler. And there, dotted about in an apparently random scatter, were the Godstowers. It was only when all the maps were joined end to end that the symmetry emerged, and it became obvious that they formed straight lines, marking the location of the tunnels below for those who knew.

  Gantor traced the route they had taken from the Godstower near the Karninghold, first heading to the southeast, and then due east to the border. The map stopped at the fifth line, the last Karning to be secured, but they knew what it would show had the mapmakers been interested: the Godstowers continuing on through the insecure sixth line border Karning and beyond, passing under Third and Supplies and even further out to where the builders were still working, invisible underground. Mia tried to remember her own jo
urney, but it was like trying to catch a dream; moments of vividness, hazy flashes of memory as if recalling a distant childhood event, and abrupt jumps where whole days were missing.

  With tables pushed together and all the maps laid out, the whole Karningplain was spread out before them. Tanist had marked the presumed routes of all the tunnels in red ink, and the pattern could hardly be clearer.

  “They come from the Ring,” Hurst said in bewildered tones. “That’s where they start – at the Ring. Maybe even at the Tower of Reception itself, if you extend these lines all the way. If you could get into the tunnel there, and walked due east you’d end up – well, that’s sixth there, isn’t it?”

  “Where the resupply arrives,” Mia said.

  “On the other hand,” Gantor said, “if you start at sixth and walk due west, you’d end up at the Ring. Maybe even under the Tower of Reception itself.”

  “So?” Hurst said, but Tanist began to laugh.

  “Do I have to explain everything?” Gantor said, rolling his eyes. “If you want to kill a beast, the quickest way is to cut off its head. So – a handful of men, a stroll through the tunnels, and pop up in the tower. Surprise! And then—” He made an unmistakeable slicing motion with his hands.

  Mia shuddered.

  40: The Guide (Hurst)

  Thoughts fizzed through Hurst’s head, jostling for attention. Was it possible? Could it really be as simple as walking back up the tunnels with a few Skirmishers and into the tower? Could they even get in that way? Cut off the head, Gantor had said – but would that be enough? And what about afterwards?

  Around the table, everyone talked over one another, asking questions, half answering and then jumping to another idea. Walst was laughing, slapping Gantor on the back. Tanist and his Senior Companion Groonerst were murmuring, heads together, poring over the map showing the Ring to identify the Godstowers there. Even Trimon was smiling. But outside the circle, Mia stood silent, arms wrapped tightly round her body, her face white. Hurst was beside her in a moment.

  “It’s just an idea,” he said, putting an arm around her, but she was rigid beneath his touch. “It may come to nothing, you know. It may not even be possible.” Still she said nothing. “We have to do something, Mia. Now that we know what’s been going on, we have to try to change things.” He heard the pleading whine in his voice, but he had to make her understand.

  “By killing Slaves? And not just Slaves, Those who Serve the Gods – in the Tower of Reception! Oh, Hurst!” Shaking her head, she turned and walked slowly away from him.

  “She’ll come round,” Gantor said, emerging from the throng round the table to watch Mia disappearing.

  “Will she? She’s always been deeply into the Word, I’m not sure she can set that aside now.”

  “Well, she’ll have to,” Gantor said. Hurst spluttered a little. “It’s true. She has to come with us to read the directions on the tunnel walls. Unless you know anyone else who can read Kannick Old Script?”

  ~~~

  No one bothered with the stillness that day, they were all engrossed in maps and plans and logistics. They were talking so loudly that no one heard the bell until Heddizan came tearing in from the compound.

  “Arrivals! Down in the tunnel! Come on!”

  He tore off again, and Hurst began to follow.

  “Where’s the fire?” asked Tanist, grabbing his arm. “Can we help?”

  “New people arriving in the tunnel – can you hear the bell?” Hurst said. “And a guide. Isn’t that nice? We’ve got it covered.”

  “What impeccable timing,” Gantor said, grinning. “What gear did we say? Battle but no swords?”

  “Battle with training sword,” Hurst said. “Can’t swing a sword down there, but it looks good.”

  They had planned what they would do if the opportunity arose. Even so, it was strange to gear up and then make their way down the stairs to the tunnel instead of to the training grounds. The kitchens were silent as they passed by, heavy wooden doors barring the entrance in case of trouble. Further on, the big caverns where they had gathered before the battle were likewise closed off. The arrival of new warriors was always a little fraught. After several days in the tunnel, there was no predicting just how they would react to the handover.

  Hurst led the group along the tunnel towards the gate, torches flickering. All the Captains were behind him, as well as a number of their most intimidating men. Huddled together close to the gate were seven men, shackled and chained into two groups. One or two appeared belligerent, but most looked tired and apprehensive. They ranged from a skinny young man scarcely beyond boyhood to a well-rounded man of perhaps forty. Beyond the closed gate was another face – the guide, perhaps one of Those who Serve the Gods, who had brought the seven down the tunnel.

  Hurst, as Commander, went down to the gate.

  “Seven, then?” he said to the guide. “Anything we should know?” A glance further down the tunnel revealed the dim outline of a wheeled cart.

  “No. They’ve been no trouble,” the man said, his voice soft, educated, passing a ring full of keys through the bars. And was that an accent? Hurst wondered briefly if this was Mia’s guide, for he had the exact curls she had described, but this man was older, around forty. He wore the same kind of nondescript clothes as his prisoners, simple tunic, trousers and cloak, although perhaps in better condition. He wore thin fingerless gloves, Hurst noted, not unlike his own, probably for the same reason – to hide his tattoos. There was a ring with a stone on one finger. Hurst couldn’t see any weapons, and certainly he had no sword or bow, although the cloak could be concealing knives.

  “Very well, Captain, carry on,” Hurst said, tossing the keys to Heddizan, and moved back up the tunnel a short distance to stand beside Ainsley.

  Heddizan gazed sternly at the seven men. “No funny business, you lot,” he said. “We’re all a bit jittery, and we don’t want anyone getting hurt, do we?” He knelt down in front of one man and began trying keys until the shackles popped open. It was a tedious business – first one foot, then the other, then the chain connecting him to the next in line. When he was free, two burly warriors led him away down the corridor and stood guard over him. While Heddizan moved on to the next man, Gantor and Walst collected the discarded shackles and began feeding them under the bottom of the gate. The guide gathered them up, walked back to the cart and threw them in.

  This was the tricky moment, and Hurst tried to be nonchalant and not watch. While the guide’s back was turned, Gantor flipped open the cover on the gate’s lock and began sliding the levers. Each made a metallic thunk as it slotted into place, but with luck the clanking shackles would cover the noise. The guide gave no sign of alarm, and turned back to the gate. As soon as he stopped moving Gantor swung the gate open and Walst raced through, with Trimon behind him. The guide gave a squeak, then turned and ran. He reached the cart, jumped on and was already beginning to move when Walst reached him and pulled him off. There was a brief scuffle, then a scream and he dropped like a stone. Walst and Trimon half carried and half dragged him back through the gate, each holding firmly to one arm.

  They stood him up, glaring defiantly at them, in front of Hurst. Blood was streaming from his nose.

  “Clever trick, learning how to open the gate from your side,” he said, spitting blood.

  “Yes it is, isn’t it?” Hurst said, beaming at him. “We’re quite pleased with it ourselves.”

  “I wonder how well you’d manage with all the others.”

  “I shall regard it as a personal challenge,” Hurst said. “But you seem to have had an accident. Captain, didn’t I tell you not to damage him until we’ve exhausted other possibilities?”

  “Sorry, Sir,” Walst said, grinning. “He inadvertently fell onto my fist.”

  Hurst rummaged in a pocket for a bit of grubby cloth, and was amused to see the guide flinch as he began to wipe his face. He gave the nose a sharp tweak, which produced another scream. “Good news – it doesn’t seem to
be broken! Isn’t that fortunate?” And he smiled even wider. “Better tie him up. Just in case of more accidents, you know.”

  Heddizan had been nervously watching this exchange, ready to jump into the fray or leap out of the way, as necessary, but now he turned back to the shackled men. Ainsley took a group of men up the tunnel to bring the cart through the gates, and after that they allowed them to swing shut. Gantor fetched a length of rope and tied the guide’s hands behind his back, after checking him over for weapons. He had none.

  “What are you going to do with him?” one of the newly arrived men asked, watching with interest.

  Hurst paused. They hadn’t rehearsed the involvement of the newcomers, but it could be useful. “Haven’t made a final decision on that,” he said. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Give me five minutes alone with him, and I’m sure I could think of something.” Several of the other men laughed.

  “I’ve got fists he can fall on too,” said a man with the imposing bulk of a miller or a smith, raising another laugh.

  “You and a hundred more of us,” said Heddizan, looking up from his unlocking. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”

  “Well, let’s see how co-operative he decides to be,” Hurst said easily. Then, to Heddizan, “Captain, you have charge of the rest of our new arrivals. See they have ale and something to eat. It’s a long time until meat.”

  “Ha!” one of them said. “So it must be afternoon.”

  Hurst smiled in sympathy. The tunnels were very disorientating, and it was hard to keep track even of day and night, unless you paid close attention and knew the moon charts well.

  “Yes, it’s afternoon, and raining hard, so you won’t see much today, but tomorrow you can go outside. Welcome to Third Section, my friends.”

  ~~~

  They put the guide in the very cell where Hurst had been held after Bulraney’s death. They brought him blankets and a pillow, bread and water, searched him more thoroughly for concealed weapons and removed his bonds. He wore a delicate silver pendant on a chain around his neck, but he became so agitated when they tried to remove it, that Hurst shrugged and left it with him. They removed his ring with great care, suspecting what it was capable of. It was of silver, and bore an amber stone set in an octagonal base. Cautious experimentation revealed that the stone could be turned into different positions, two of which produced a sharp needle from the centre of the stone when pressed against something.