Godless World 3 - Fall of Thanes

by Brian Ruckley

  Gryvan paced up and down over the thick mottled rug. The beaker of wine in his hand was forgotten.

  "Why did you not tell me all of this at once, immediately on your return?" he cried.

  "I doubted it, sire. How could I not? Such things strain the sinews of belief. I thought it prudent to conduct certain investigations of my own. Now I have the sad proofs." The Chancellor unfurled a roll of parchments from a tube at his belt. "Copies of letters I was shown in Anduran, during my captivity. messages the Black Road discovered there. Others I have found for myself since my return. And all sing the same foul melody, sire."

  Gryvan slammed his cup down on an ornate little table. He ignored the manuscripts that Mordyn held out to him.

  "I'll not trust a single word that comes from the mouth of the Black Road," he snarled.

  "A wise precaution." Mordyn nodded placidly. The tumultuous emotions that raged within Gryvan found no reflection in his Chancellor. There was a calmness about the man that would better suit reports of the weather. "They no doubt take delight in pointing out the rot within our own house. Yet whether or not you choose to trust their intent in sharing their discoveries with me, there is a truth to be discerned. A pattern."

  Gryvan threw himself down into a chair so violently that it rocked back on its legs.

  "Conspiracy against me? Against Haig?"

  The Shadowhand rolled the parchments up once more and slipped them back into their tube. He set it down beside the High Thane's discarded wine cup.

  "I will leave these for you to examine at your leisure, if you see fit. But yes: conspiracy. The Crafts conspired with the Dornach Kingship, promising to deliver up the Dargannan Blood even as they were trying to buy its future Thane. They urged Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig to throw off his duties to you, and he in his turn promised them free rein if they could foster war between us and Dornach, and raise him up to be High Thane in your stead."

  "This is insanity," breathed Gryvan.

  "Of a kind," the Chancellor nodded. "Madness born of hatred and ambition and greed. We have been slowly, quietly betrayed, sire. For many years. Until the Black Road entered the fray, the treacheries were discreet and careful. Now... now, our enemies have been intoxicated by the chaos, mistaking it for our weakness. They become incautious. Aewult's every effort against the Black Road was hindered--blatantly, fragrantly--by Lannis and Kilkry."

  "I thought his accusations absurd," Gryvan growled. "Flailings born of humiliation."

  "As might I, sire, had I not witnessed some of it for myself. You know I would not absolve the Bloodheir of blame had he earned it. He did not. I saw the contempt, the defiance, with which he was treated. How else but by treachery can we explain his defeat, when he had ten thousand of your finest warriors at his back? And you've heard the same tale I have, of what happened to Aewult's messengers when they sought out the Lannis boy?"

  "In Ive. Yes. Murdered." Gryvan rubbed his brow. He felt overwhelmed. And his head ached.

  "Indeed. Neither Lannis nor Kilkry Bloods has ever acceded, in their hearts, to your family's rule. And the Crafts... well, your rule has swelled their coffers, yet they have learned not gratitude, but ambition. Arrogance. The Goldsmiths stir up discontent; they send their mobs raging through the streets of your city like wild animals. My people have already heard it whispered in taverns and workshops that the Crafts set those fires themselves, as pretext. But a man whose enemies assemble to assail him is as much benefited as beset, for they reveal themselves."

  Gryvan frowned at his Chancellor.

  "You begin to see, do you not?" murmured Mordyn, stepping closer. There was an eager edge to him suddenly. His eyes burned with a passion Gryvan had not seen there since his return from the north.

  "See what?" the High Thane asked.

  "A thousand years of history have taught us that it takes great men, strong men, to impose order upon this world. It takes men with the will to seize whatever opportunities chaos offers up; the will to bend events to the shape of their own desires. Grey Kulkain did it, forging the Bloods from the horrors of the Storm Years. Your own family has done it, rising from the disasters of the Black Road's very birth to overthrow Kilkry's dominion. Such momentous times are come again, sire. Your time."

  Gryvan rose once more to his feet. He clasped his hands behind his back and went to the nearest of the tall windows, through which a bleak light fell. There was his city, his precious city, arrayed before him in all its expansive wonder. His gaze fell upon the gaudy tower the Gemsmiths had recently chosen to adorn their Crafthouse with. A prideful statement, that. Perhaps one of intent also. He chewed his lip.

  "The opportunity is here," he heard Mordyn saying behind him. "If we but have the courage to imagine it."

  "You doubt my mettle?" Gryvan asked darkly without turning round.

  "No, sire. Never."

  Gryvan stared down at his black boots. His sons were flawed--he knew that--yet still they were his sons, and entitled to receive from him the same legacy he had inherited from his father: the ascendancy of the Haig Blood; order and security, imposed upon the turbulent peoples of these lands through strength, and through force of will. He could feel his cheeks colouring, a hot flush of rage at the thought that those who dwelled beneath the protective aegis of Haig power would dare to conspire against it.

  "I was released by Ragnor oc Gyre's Captains as a token of their benign intent," Mordyn said. "The influence of the most bellicose factions within the Black Road is dwindling. They had slipped from Ragnor's control for a time, it's true, but that has changed. They understand that they cannot prevail against our martial strength, whatever minor victories they might have won thus far."

  Gryvan closed his eyes against the pounding ache that was building in his skull. His hands, still clasped behind his back, tightened, the fingers bars of steel locked around one another.

  "They will retire from all the lands they have occupied," Mordyn continued. "They will withdraw across the Stone Vale, and make over to you all the territory they have seized. To you personally, sire, not to Kilkry or Lannis. They pledge a permanent peace, on condition that you rule those lands directly and unmake the Bloods that formerly held them. Ragnor knows that without Kilkry and Lannis to stir up these ancient, dry troubles, there can be peace between our peoples. In pursuit of the same quarry, he pledges in his turn to wipe away the Horin Blood."

  "Peace..." rasped Gryvan.

  "The better to deal with those enemies that lie more nearly at hand. The Crafts. Dornach. The time is ripe. Everything you have long dreamed of lies before you now, sire. It is all possible, now that they have revealed themselves. We have only to reach out and grasp the future, to make it real."

  "I need..." Gryvan's tongue stumbled over his own words. There was some part of him that feared the fell anger, the grasping hunger, roiling in his breast. Yet the larger part rejoiced in the scent of crisis, the anticipation of long-held ambitions upon the brink of realisation. Kilkry, Dargannan, Lannis, all swept away. The Crafts humbled. Dornach bloodied, perhaps even subjugated. And King, perhaps? Perhaps even that?

  "I need more certainty," the stubbornly cautious fraction of him said as he turned back to face his Chancellor. "I need to know."

  "We have a day or two," Mordyn said with a flat smile. He seemed entirely unsurprised by Gryvan's hesitancy. "No more, I would suggest. And no time at all, perhaps, for one or two matters."

  "Such as?" Gryvan asked. He wanted this to end now. His mind seethed, his temples throbbed. Why was it so difficult to think clearly? He wanted only to retire to his chambers.

  "I hear rumours of a plot--fostered by the Goldsmiths, perhaps--to seize Igryn and return him to his lands, in the hope of stirring up yet more enfeebling trouble for us. Allow me to have him removed to In'Vay. Once he is there, out of sight and mind, he can be quietly killed. None will mourn his passing. None who are true friends to the Haig Blood, at least."

  "Very well. My wife no longer finds him amusing, in any case."
r />   "And recall the Bloodheir from Kilvale, sire. Send word at once. Have him bring a few thousand of his men back here. The greater threat now is from Dornach, perhaps Dargannan; perhaps still closer to home, if the Crafts and those they have suborned think us weak. The people of the city grow more restive with every passing day. We may need Aewult's swords to cure them of that ill.

  "The forces of the Black Road lack both the vigour and the inclination to test him again, and I can set them on the path back to their own lands with a single message. Better yet, if we but halt all movement of ships in and out of Kolkyre, they might yet wipe away the last vestiges of the Kilkry Blood on our behalf, even as they retire. Roaric will quickly fail, if we close the sea to him."

  "I need to know," the High Thane repeated.

  "I believe we can clear away whatever doubts you harbour, sire," Mordyn said, nodding sympathetically. "There is one here in Vaymouth who surely knows the truth of it, and might be compelled to share it. The Dornachman. Alem T'anarch."

  "The Ambassador?" Gryvan murmured, faintly incredulous.

  "You must have the truth. You said as much yourself. Such truths cannot be won easily, or without daring. T'anarch... he has no supporters here, sire, no mobs to rise up in his name. And his masters have never concealed their contempt for us, their envy of our strength."

  "Would you have open war with the Kingship?"

  "If this comes to nothing, whatever wounds we open may be healed. But there is war already, I think, open or otherwise. A great many will be rendered carrion by the end of it: those who shy away from the demands of the moment or yield the initiative to their opponents."

  Carrion, thought Gryvan, his weariness briefly pierced by lances of bitter anger. Yes, if there are those who think to test my resolve, that is their destiny. I shall not meekly surrender all that I hold, all that I have won. Let those who imagine otherwise learn the harsh lessons of their error. The weak, the foolhardy, the traitorous, become carrion. Such is the world.

  VII

  The scout came back into the copse on a lame horse. There was a bloody welt across its hamstring.

  "Crossbow," the rider said by way of explanation as he swung out of the saddle.

  In the gathering darkness it was difficult to see much, but the man's voice sounded strained to Orisian.

  "And you?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"

  "Nothing serious, sire. The woman with the crossbow: my knee met her helmet when I rode her down."

  "Were you followed?" Taim demanded. He was holding the horse's reins, stroking its neck while another warrior examined its wound.

  "No." The scout shook his head emphatically. "It was just the two of them stumbled across me. Both dead. They were careless, wandering around looking for a deer or hare for the pot, I think, not someone to fight."

  "And Ive Bridge?" Orisian asked.

  "Not more than three score spears to hold it, sire, as far as I could see. And only half of those look to be trained warriors."

  "No Inkallim?" asked Taim.

  "None that I could see. Couldn't go too close, but no, I don't think so."

  "Good enough," Taim grunted. "We've likely got them overmatched, then."

  "We should wait until the night's got a firm hold," said Orisian quietly. "Let them get bleary with sleep. K'rina and Eshenna and Yvane can stay hidden here, with a dozen men."

  He half-expected Taim to demur, to try to persuade him to remain behind with the na'kyrim, but the warrior said nothing. Orisian glanced up through the leafless branches towards the bruised sky. The cloud was thin; the moon, risen long ago, a diffuse disc.

  "There should be enough light to see by. And if there isn't, we'll have Kyrinin with us. They won't."

  They had not made camp in the little patch of woodland. No tents were set up, no fires were lit, despite the searing cold. They merely sheltered there, from the desultory snow and from the revelatory daylight. Men and horses were crowded into the heart of the copse, all made listless and irritable by the enervating tension. Some sat on the damp ground, dicing or muttering softly to one another, or chewing on cured meats and oatcakes. Most stood by their horses, keeping them quiet.

  Sentries were scattered through the fringes of the thicket, watching the snow-dusted fields and rough slopes all around. Low hills rolled their way westwards, sinking into the huge coastal plain. There were scattered farms and villages, fading in the distance into a flat haze of grey. Snow showers had come and gone all day, by turns revealing and obscuring grim signs of unrest and ruin. For a time a dark smear of smoke marked the site of some burning barn or farmhouse; later a dozen twisting, frail columns rose elsewhere, betraying the campfires of some roving band of reavers; once a great company of riders could be seen, sweeping across the very lowest slopes.

  All within that concealing stand of trees felt the calm and quiet that currently embraced them to be a treacherously fragile, even deceptive, thing. A lie, told by a world that had turned into a savage and cruel mockery of itself, and could betray at any moment those who forgot how much had changed.

  Orisian squatted down beside Ess'yr, holding his water pouch out to her. She blinked the offer away.

  "We'll be moving soon," he said quietly. "Once it's as dark as it's going to get."

  The Kyrinin rolled her head, stretching her long neck.

  "When you choose," she said.

  "I'm grateful for your aid in this," Orisian murmured. Grateful for many things, in truth, few of which he could easily put into words.

  "This opens the way north, yes?" Ess'yr said. "We move closer now, to the place we belong. To the war we must fight."

  She meant the White Owls, he knew. She and her brother believed they were travelling towards their own personal renewal of the brutal contest between Fox and White Owl; towards the discharge of a lethal duty that had been upon them ever since the fighting at Koldihrve. Vengeance, Yvane would no doubt dismissively call it, as Orisian himself might once have called it. He thought--he felt--a little differently now, though those feelings were imprecise, as hard to grasp and examine as vapours.

  "Where did it come from?" he asked. "The hatred between Fox and White Owl, I mean."

  "From the beginning," Ess'yr said softly, without inflection. "From the shape of things. From the pattern the Walking God made. He spoke with many animals, not one, as he walked. Without difference, there is no pattern at all."

  It was an answer that gave him nothing, but he had not really expected otherwise. To his surprise, though, Ess'yr had a little more to offer.

  "It is not thought amongst my people," she murmured, "that strife, and pain, and hate came to us only with the leaving of the Gods. These things have always been in the world, in its differences. They are part of what was made. When the Gods left, it was balance that was lost; not suffering that was found."

  Orisian nodded, though Ess'yr was not looking at him, and though her words gave rise to an inchoate sorrow in him.

  "But there was no balance, even before the Gods departed, was there?" he said. "We killed the wolfenkind. Every one of them."

  "Still, it was balance the Gods sought," Ess'yr said. She sat there crosslegged, straight-backed, with her hands upon her knees and now she did fix him with a steady gaze. "They chose to make us many, not one. They chose to put unlikeness into the world, where before there had been none. It must be, I think, that they believed such difference could bring balance. If it brings strife also, it must be that they thought that a fair price."

  Her eyes held him. The richness of her voice held him. He felt himself drawing nearer to her, to her life and her people. It took him, for a moment, out of the chill, fearful present; took him somewhere safer, better.

  "My dreams have lost their balance," he said, as much to himself as to Ess'yr. "When I manage to sleep at all. It's cruel to find sleep so hard when the nights are at their longest."

  "They become shorter."

  "The nights? Do they?" He fell silent for a moment. Grief came up in him, risi
ng in his throat, through his cheeks, touching his eyes. "Winter grows old, then. I missed its turning."

  Ess'yr said nothing. The last fading light that reached into the heart of the copse caught the tattoos that crossed her cheekbone, set the slightest glint in her soft grey eyes.

  "We used to celebrate on the longest night," Orisian said thickly. "In Kolglas. It's the night when winter's strongest, but also when it begins to lose its grip. There was feasting and dancing. And my mother sang."

  The immediacy of the memories was frightening, their intricate weight--grief and comfort too inextricably entwined to tell one from the other--so great that he felt himself buckling. But her voice was there, in his mind, coming to him across an impassable chasm of loss. He heard it, and at once it was gone, melting away into the sounds of the cold dusk, the accumulating darkness. The losing of it robbed him of whatever comfort it had offered; left him only with the grief. The bitter anger.

  "Time to go," he said through trembling lips.

  Ive Bridge huddled in stony silence on the south bank of the river. Orisian remembered passing it as he made his first journey to Highfast, and he had thought it an unappealing place then. Now, it appeared ominous in its bleak isolation: squat houses crowded in on what little flat ground the terrain offered, and the bridge itself, hooking over the river like a bent finger. All of it was indistinct and menacing in the darkness, with only the faintest of moonlight to pick out its inanimate forms. A few lamps or torches burned in windows, but most of the village was all greys and blacks and imagined danger. He could just catch the soft scent of woodsmoke on the breeze. That smell too spoke to him with a threatening cadence these days.

  Orisian could hear the River Ive down there in the crevasse it had made for itself on the far side of the houses, grinding and foaming in its mountain bed under the bridge. Somewhere beyond that noise, out in the utterly impenetrable darkness, lay the road that led on and up into the Karkyre Peaks, to Highfast. If he thought of that too clearly or carefully, doubt came crowding in upon him. He did not know how much trust to put in his own thoughts and instincts now, and chose instead--as much as he could--to hold his attention upon the present, the immediate.