by Tad Williams
“Hold,” said another voice. “Nothing wrong with a man showing a little fire.” The newcomer stepped forward from where he had been overseeing the rousting of the other prisoners. He looked Fremur up and down with amused contempt. “Vybord’s right though. A proper thane should have a beard.”
“I have not had time to find a bride here at the Thanemoot,” Fremur told him. “Rudur’s . . . invitation was unexpected.”
The man laughed. He was bigger than his underling, brawny, with ritual scars and tattoos covering much of his face. He was also missing half his teeth, so that one cheek sagged a little. “Crane Clan, eh?” he said. “You lake-birds. I know your kind. Good scouts, but when the fighting gets fierce you all take wing.”
“Just free my hands and give me my sword and I’ll show you fierce.” But just looking at the size of this man and the evidence of many combats survived, Fremur knew it was likely a foolish boast.
The other fellow still seemed more amused than angry. “Get up, then, Thane Mustache. I am Odobreg, Thane of the Badger Clan and Rudur’s chief bondsman. You have a sharp tongue, pup, but I do not kill men who have been beaten and left in the mud. Get up.”
“So Rudur can have me killed instead? I would rather it happen now so I don’t have to watch him crow and strut.”
“Do not think to know what Rudur wants or what Rudur plans.” Odobreg sounded more amused than angry. “He is subtle beyond what any Lake-man can understand. He called you guest and said you would live—it is only that upstart, the half stone-dweller, who has been put outside the fence. And if you get up now, after your clan has bowed to Redbeard I might have use for a man with sharp wits and courage.”
Fremur climbed to his feet and stood, hands still tied behind his back, stiff and sore and unsteady as a newborn colt. “And when Unver finally kills Redbeard, Thane Odobreg, I might have use for you.”
The clansman who had first woken him snarled at this, but Odobreg seemed a man of broader temperament; he threw back his head and laughed. “Good! That is good. Very well, little lake-bird, I offer you a wager. At the end of the day, the one whose chieftain is dead will bow to the other and offer his neck for the sword or the collar.”
Fremur could barely hold his temper back at hearing Unver treated so lightly, but these men had not seen what he had. “Very well, then,” he said, and let himself be herded toward the paddock gate with the others, “we have a wager.”
“Ah, Thane Mustache.” Odobreg showed the few front teeth he still owned. “I will enjoy having you bring me yerut in my silver cup. You will be like another son for me to cuff into obedience and a respectful tongue.”
* * *
• • •
The crowd that had gathered was even larger than it had been the evening before. Most of the people seemed to have been waiting around Rudur’s camp since the sun’s first light. Unver’s Stallions, Fremur, and his Cranes were marched out to wait in the damp morning until Rudur finally deigned to emerge.
“Has the hour come?” he said loudly, as if this was the first time he had thought about it since rising. “Then we must go and see how the spirits have treated Shan Nobody.”
There was laughter, especially from Rudur’s own clan, but Fremur thought he saw disapproving faces in the crowd as well, even some unhidden anger. Redbeard had never been popular, but he had made bargains with the stone-dwellers that had kept the city men out of the Thrithings-lands for years. But that had changed of late, and the one thing that all grasslanders shared was resentment of the castle-folk with their cities and walls and weapons. Fremur guessed some among the crowd had also heard that Unver had fulfilled many of the old prophecies, and resented Rudur trying to destroy something that had given them hope.
But though Fremur looked hard at all the faces he passed for signs of Redbeard’s weakness or unpopularity, he also knew that none of it would matter if Unver was dead. He might become a figure of future tales, one of the many failed hopes that peopled grassland history, but that would be scant use to those who had cast their lot with him.
If I live after this, it will be as a Black Bear turnspit, he thought with a flame of helpless anger in his belly—a slave. And poor Hyara will be given to one of Rudur’s underlings, someone no better than the brute husband Unver killed.
The procession led by Rudur and his shaman Volfrag grew even larger as it made its way around the edge of the encampment and headed toward the Spirit Hills. Soon enough they reached the base of the highest of the Spirit Hills, where Rudur’s guards were waiting.
“Have you kept the hill safe all night?” Rudur asked them loudly. “Have you left Unver Long Legs alone with the spirits he claims have chosen him?”
“After beating him with the Summer Rose until he was almost dead!” shouted Fremur, but Rudur ignored him. The guards all swore that nothing larger than a mouse had passed them from dusk to dawn.
“Well, then either the spirits came to him in their many forms and worshipped at his feet—or perhaps they came and showed him less kindness.” Rudur laughed loudly at his own jest.
Fremur knew that the chances that Unver had survived the night after such a terrible whipping would have been small, but left bound, bloody, and unprotected, he was almost certainly dead. Hunting was forbidden on the sacred hill, and at night the wolves, bears, and sometimes catamounts all roamed the wooded slopes in complete freedom.
Rudur led the crowd upward along the winding trail. Some of them were grave and looked little happier than Fremur, but others clearly found it a merry outing, a bit of fun. But even the noisiest fell silent as they approached the great stone and the wooden post and for the first time caught sight of the figure slumped motionless at its base. Fremur saw how much blood had soaked into the ground around the prisoner’s body and felt despair. Unver’s chin was on his chest, his legs stretched before him, and every part of him Fremur could see was covered with dried brown blood.
Then Unver lifted his head to look at Rudur, eyes twin gleams under his brow and the bloodied tangle of his hair.
It was not a sudden movement, more like that of a man who has been deep in thought and finally realizes that someone has been speaking to him, but it startled the approaching crowd like a sudden roar of thunder, and transfixed Fremur with sharp, almost painful joy. Unver lived! Many of the clansfolk stopped where they were and cried out, transfixed with superstitious surprise. Even Rudur Redbeard was taken aback: Fremur saw the Thane of Thanes almost stumble before recovering himself. But Rudur was no fool, though he was no doubt cursing himself for not simply taking Unver’s head instead of trying to make him an example.
The mood of the crowd had suddenly but definitely changed. Whatever else he might be, Rudur Redbeard was no fool, and Fremur knew that he could sense it too. Against all odds, Unver had survived the night, but for Rudur to accept it and release him would be only to make his legend greater and Redbeard’s own reputation smaller.
Rudur waved to Volfrag to follow him. The curious, whispering grasslanders moved forward after them, Fremur and the other prisoners carried forward like chaff on the wind, although fear of Rudur or the spirits of the place caused the crowd to stop a respectful distance from the great stone and the prisoner’s bloodied post.
“I see you are stronger than I guessed,” Rudur said. “It is unfortunate you are mad—you might have made a good thane to your clan after all. Come, you must be thirsty after your long night, and I am not a cruel man.” He gestured, and Volfrag took the top off the carved box he had carried to the hilltop, revealing a golden ewer and two large gold cups.
“Pour the man a cup of wine, Shaman,” Rudur said loud enough for much of the crowd to hear. “Let no one say Rudur is not a fair-minded host.”
Volfrag, his great bearded face impassive, poured wine from the ewer and then passed the goblet to Rudur. Unver still had not spoken, but only glowered up at the Thane of Thanes, his face a bloody m
ask.
“Drink it,” Rudur said, lowering the cup to Unver’s mouth. “There is not much mercy in the world.”
“No!” a woman screamed. “Don’t touch it! It is poison!”
Fremur saw Unver’s mother, Vorzheva, fight her way out of the crowd. Once free of those trying to hold her back she ran across the open ground toward the post, but she was running toward Rudur, not her son, and her fingers were curved like claws. Several of the guards grabbed her, but she nearly managed to slip away from them as well, her hands snatching at the air only a short distance from Redbeard’s face.
“By the Midnight Growler,” he shouted, “are none of you men, who can keep a woman under control?”
“Coward! Liar!” Vorzheva’s face was so full of fury she looked like a madwoman. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, one sleeve left behind in her struggle to reach Redbeard. “Now you would poison him in front of all the clans!”
Rudur’s hand snapped out, striking Vorzheva hard enough that she tumbled back into the arms of the men holding her. “Keep that bitch away from me!” He turned to the crowd. “There seems to be no end to the Cranes and Stallions and their lies. You heard this bitch claim I mean to poison him.” He held up the cup, then took a long swallow before wiping his mouth with the hand that had just silenced Vorzheva. He lowered the cup to Unver’s mouth. “I will not offer it to you again,” he warned.
Unver found the strength to kick out with one of his legs and knock the cup from Rudur’s hand. Fremur was astonished he could manage it after all he had suffered. The golden cup landed with a dull clink on the stony ground, wine splashing out in a broad half-circle before the cup stopped rolling.
“I am tired of you, Long Legs.” Rudur’s voice still carried, but there was something in it that Fremur had not heard before—cold hatred. He was perilously close to being made to look a fool and he did not like it. “I am tired of your claims—you, who lets his whore mother fight for him, the woman who took a stone-dweller to be her man. Yes, I know who she is.” He gestured to Volfrag. “Pour me another cup, shaman.” He took the new cup from Volfrag and held it up. “It is only fair, after all. Unver Long Legs may rest here, but I still have to walk back down.” Several of his underlings laughed at this jest as Rudur took a long swallow and smacked his lips. “I am a fool for wasting good Perdruin red on a traitor,” he declared.
“He did not waste it—Unver gave it to the spirits!” someone in the crowd shouted.
Rudur turned, glaring, trying to see who had mocked him. “Then the spirits can care for him. He will stay here, tied to this pole, until he dies. I warrant the beasts of this place were put off by all the people tramping across the sacred hills yesterday. This time Unver will remain for three days—and anyone who comes to give him aid will face my anger. He claims to be something greater than a man. Let him prove it.”
Rudur waved to his men and was turning to go when Vorzheva, still held by several of them, began to cry out and nod toward the ground. “The spirits did come!” she shouted. “Look, all my people! Look at the earth! See for yourselves!”
One of Redbeard’s men clapped a hand over her mouth, but the startled crowd was already pushing forward to examine the ground around Rudur, Unver, and the post. At first there was nothing but confusion, because few were close enough to see anything, but then Fremur saw what Vorzheva had noticed and felt his heart swell in his breast. He could not point with his hands tied, but he pulled a little apart from the others and cried, “She’s right! She’s right! Look at the ground! Look at the tracks! The wolves came in the night!”
And then the crowd shoved forward in earnest, some even falling onto their hands and knees. Those at the front stopped just short of the circle of muddy paw-prints that described a rough half-circle on the stony plateau, a crescent curved around the post where Unver was still tied.
“The wolves came! Just like what I saw in the Lakelands!” Fremur shouted, and though he knew he might be silenced for good with a blow from a sword or ax, he could not stay quiet. “The moon-howlers came to him in the night—the spirits sent them! Unver is the king of wolves!”
“It’s true!” someone shouted. “See, the wolves came to him! Just like Edizel the Great!” Some even moved toward the place where Unver still slumped as if to set him free.
Rudur bellowed at his men to push the crowd back, and several of them waded in, not just shoving but swinging swords and axes to drive the people away. The crowd stumbled backward before them, but most of the onlookers were angry now, or at least shaken by what had happened, and those at the back who had not seen and heard were still pushing forward. In a few moments more, Rudur and his men would have to start killing. Redbeard put the Silent One’s stone at his back, and his men pulled in tight around him, weapons upraised.
“I will kill anyone who lifts a hand against me,” he shouted, staring at the crowd, his eyes bulging, his red beard bristling so that his jaw seemed to have caught fire. “That is a promise, and Rudur Redbeard always keeps his promises . . . always . . .”
His voice, a moment before at a bellowing peak, suddenly became quieter.
“Always . . .” he said, and then stopped to gulp air. “I . . . will . . .” Rudur looked around as though he had forgotten where he was. He blinked twice, lifted his sword once more, and opened his mouth to speak again, then folded to the ground like a dropped saddlebag and lay gasping. He shuddered and fell still.
“It was poisoned wine!” someone shouted. “He has drunk poison that he meant for the Shan!”
For a moment no one else in the crowd said anything, startled and dismayed by the suddenness of Redbeard’s collapse. Volfrag the shaman kneeled next to him, looked into his still-open eyes, then felt the veins in his neck before turning to Rudur’s bondsmen, who were as stunned as cattle caught out in a sudden thunderstorm.
“He is dead.” Volfrag’s deep voice carried out across the crowd. The shaman abruptly stood, spreading his arms so that his robes billowed in the breeze, and raised his voice even louder. “Rudur Redbeard is dead! The spirits have spoken! Unver of the Stallion Clan is innocent of all claims laid against him!”
The crowd erupted in a great burst of noise, people shouting, some screaming in superstitious fear, others bellowing with joy. Fights broke out on all sides, and several of Rudur’s lieutenants broke and ran, pursued by other clansmen intent on capturing and punishing them. Everywhere people seemed caught up in sudden madness.
“Cut my bonds!” Fremur shouted. “Let me go to Unver! Someone cut my bonds! I must go to him!”
A man Fremur did not know stepped forward and sawed through the thongs with a broad knife. Without waiting for his fellows, Fremur leaped toward the post where Unver was already surrounded by wide-eyed men and women.
“Get back,” Fremur cried, pushing his way through. “Let me reach him!”
He called for a knife, then hacked at the thick, knotted cords that held Unver to the post. When he had finally severed them, he and several others helped the prisoner to stand. The tall man left dried blood and tatters of skin stuck to the wood of the execution pole, but he never made a sound of protest. But when Fremur and the others would have lifted him, Unver snarled and swiped at them with an arm still deep-dug with the mark of his bonds.
“I will walk on my own legs,” he said, though he barely had the breath for it. His back was a ravaged ruin, and the knife-cuts on his face and chest had opened again, streaming blood, but Unver stood swaying until he felt ready to take a step. Some turned and ran ahead, shouting the news to others in the crowd who could not see what was happening.
“He is alive! And Rudur is dead by his own treachery! The Shan is alive! He has come back to us!”
Unver took a few staggering steps. Fremur tried to convince him to lean on his shoulder if he would not be carried, but Unver would not even look at him. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on something in the distance, h
is teeth clenched in a mirthless grin of pain. At last Fremur, still weak and aching himself, was pushed aside by others who wanted to touch Unver. Fremur looked around for Vorzheva or Hyara or any of his own Crane clansmen, but the freed prisoner was surrounded by strangers now, folk from all over the Thrithings, some singing old songs, others shouting that the days of prophecy had returned.
As Fremur followed the exulting crowd, a bearded clansmen approached him, face strangely intent. Fremur was too exhausted to fight, and prepared himself for whatever vengeance this stranger wished to carry out: it did not matter now. The Shan had truly returned, and all had seen the proof of what Fremur had said. Nothing could take that from him.
But instead of attacking, the bearded man sank to his knees in front of Fremur, and it was only then that he recognized Odobreg of the Badger Clan.
“What do you want?” Fremur asked.
Odobreg drew his curved sword from its scabbard and offered it up. “Without honor a man is nothing. I made a foolish wager and lost, but the spirits only care that a man is true. I will bow my neck so you can take my head.”
Fremur stared down at him and at the gleaming blade, then reached out and gave the man’s arm a shove. “Put your sword away. You are a man of honor. Your clan and my clan are one now—we all belong to Unver Shan.”
Odobreg looked up at him, his fixed expression now changed to something more doubtful, more fearful. “What has happened here today?” he asked, almost plaintively. “What madness have we all been part of?”
“It is not madness, but destiny.” The words seemed the truest Fremur had ever spoken, and at that moment he felt like a shaman, with all the spirits speaking through him. “The world will be ours again, as it once was. We will go out from this empire of grass with our brave horsemen and fight until the entire world bends its knee to the new Shan. And you and I will be at the very heart of it all.”
