The Chieftain's hall was quiet and dark. None of the usual fires had been lit, and the musicians were conspicuously absent. She peeked round a corner to see Rogald slumped in his chair, shoulders hunched like a tired old man. It unnerved her.
“Father?” she called softly, and entered the room. He raised his shaggy head an inch and no more, propping it up on one meaty fist. The weight on his heart did not shift.
She'd never seen him like this. In her mind he was a perfect, unassailable tower of strength.
“Racha,” Rogald said heavily. “You are twenty now, and clever, and strong. I have treated you as a little girl for so long, I never wanted to admit those days were over.”
“I don't understand. I wanted to ask you‒”
He cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. Then his manner softened again. “Racha, I... I know how you feel about Dafrig. About many things. I wish there were time for you to work them out for yourself.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Father,” she choked out, “you...”
“You are my heir, my only child. It's past time I allowed you to carry your own responsibilities. I need to trust you. There are things afoot that will affect all of us.”
She couldn't meet his eyes. Miserable realisations hammered into her mind one after another. All day long ‒ for years ‒ she'd thought of nothing but herself. She figured he wouldn't want to listen anyway. She'd lied, gone behind his back, and all this time he knew.
Throwing herself to her knees before him, she placed her head on his knee and whispered, “Please forgive me.”
He moved to pat her on the head, but stopped halfway.
A great horn-blast sounded in the distance. Every head turned to look, while the echo bounced back and forth between the valley walls. The harvest festival ground to a sudden, screeching halt. Racha and her father emerged into the daylight to see what was the matter.
Green cloaks flooded into the valley. A great war party from Grenoke, advancing slowly, to the sound of heavy drumbeats. At the head of the procession strode a huge man holding an even larger sword. A ceremonial chunk of pig-iron, so heavy that no man alive could hope to swing it properly.
They didn't seem in any kind of hurry. It took them the better part of half an hour to march into the shade of the south wall, where quick-thinking men and women had shut and bolted the palisade gate.
She accompanied Rogald to the gate and helped him assume command of the milling crowd. Together they climbed the stairs to the ramparts to face the Grenokes.
“Is this what you meant?” she asked him out the corner of her mouth.
“Yes. We were cordial enough with Kovorn of Grenoke, but I've been told things...”
Racha's heart raced with worry as she reached the top of the palisade and looked down, over the sharpened stakes, at the rough column of warriors assembled before her. There was no sign of Kovorn. Then she spotted the two men riding to the front of the column, mounted on a pair of huge draught horses because no smaller beast could lift them.
“Is that‒”
“Nevill,” Rogald hissed out between clenched teeth. “So the rumours are true.”
“I'll assemble the fyrd,” said Racha, rushing to leave.
Her father caught her by the shoulder and held her still. “He hasn't come to fight today. He's here to posture.”
That was when Nevill put two shovel-sized hands to his mouth and called, “Does Rogald of the Valley fear to meet me face to face?”
The Grenokes all grinned and chortled at their leader's wit. A calculated provocation. Well, two could play at that, and the day a Grenoke could match Racha's repartee would be the day she kicked off this mortal coil.
Racha shouted back, “We fear the face of Nevill of Grenoke is best enjoyed at a distance!”
An uproar of thunderous laughter went through the Brunoke spectators, all climbing over each other to get a glimpse across the palisade. Racha grinned. However, her father's expression hadn't changed.
“So he hides behind the skirts of women, then?” echoed the reply, and the Grenokes clanged their weapons against the edges of their shoulders to show disapproval.
“My daughter speaks with the force of Brunoke,” bellowed Rogald. His voice was tight as he tried to restrain his anger. “We have given you no cause to come here armed and spoiling for a fight. Where is your Chieftain?”
“He stands before you now!”
As one, the gathered Brunokes groaned. Kovorn of the Oak Boughs had been cut of decent cloth. You couldn't always get along with him, but for the most part, he listened to reason. He wouldn't kill anyone without cause. His brother, on the other hand...
“We mourn the loss of Kovorn,” Rogald replied contemptuously, “even if his kinsmen do not.”
All the noise in the valley died. Even the wind seemed to drop, and the animals waited with bated breath. Rogald's insult struck like a precision instrument. One by one, the Grenoke warriors drew their weapons. They weren't here to fight, but they would show support for their Chief. It was a matter of pride.
Nevill sneered, “The people of Brunoke have committed grave offences against us. However, we are willing to offer one last chance to settle a peace by marriage. Your loud-mouthed daughter to my son. What say you?”
Horrified, Racha avoided her father's gaze as Nevill waited for the reply. “Father...”
“I know, my daughter. I've heard about him too. It's an awful sacrifice, and if you don't wish to make it, I will understand.”
She shook her head violently. Rogald accepted her answer with a face like a tombstone.
“I say,” he shouted, “that your son is an overgrown snake who will never rule my tribe. We will die before we submit to you and yours.”
So the battle lines were drawn. At a gesture from Nevill, the man carrying the massive ceremonial sword cast his burden down. It landed in the dirt, its point aimed at the heavy gate to Brunoke. It was a statement of intent.
“We will meet again, Rogald of the Valley,” said the Chieftain, and called his troops to return home, for now.
Racha swallowed as she watched the back of him. She'd never been in a war before, and now that she'd caused one, she wondered if she or her conscience could ever be ready for it...
In the cage near the base of the pyramid, a half-dressed young woman climbed unsteadily to one knee. She said in a tiny, trembling voice, “My Lord.”
Inside, I raged helplessly. “This isn't saving my friends! You're turning them into nothing but thralls!”
“They are alive, and I freed them as per our agreement,” came the Armaments' peevish reply. “I made no promises about what I'd do with them afterwards.”
The creature that wasn't me touched Racha's bowed head and said, “I accept your fealty. And now,” it turned to the listless squire, “for you...”
...A walled playground rang to the sound of capering children. No, not quite a playgound; a courtyard floored in dirt, starkly appointed with straw-stuffed dummies and archery targets. No one was capering, either. Sticks clattered together like swords. Sweat ran in sheets down the bare backs and faces of the boys as they cut, thrust, grappled and threw. There were no girls. Dark purple bruises covered their little bodies. Raised welts and sharp red lines of blood connected them into a network of pain and suffering.
“Faster,” shouted the chief instructor, encouraging them with his baton. “Cillevar, displace it in a circle, damn your eyes! Do it correctly or you'll be eating your dinner out of the pig trough!” Again the baton lashed out. It made a sharp crack against the unfortunate boy's head. He yelped and fell onto his hands and knees, sobbing. “You're all weak. God help our Kingdom if you lot ever get sent to the war.”
Cillevar's opponent, a young boy with Faro's eyes and Faro's face, looked on in a kind of numb horror. When the gesture came to continue the bout, the squire-to-be obeyed mechanically. There were tears in his eyes as he brought his stick down again and again until the other sobbing boy got up and achingly de
fended himself from the rain of blows.
A scream from the other side of the yard attracted everybody's attention. The sounds of mock-fighting died away as boys and instructors alike crowded in to see what was going on. Despite his youth, Faro managed to elbow his way to the front of the crowd, and saw the whole scene in gruesome detail.
A boy lay on the ground. His chest was covered in blood, probably from his swollen, beet-red nose. However, that blood was old, probably more than an hour, already dried in place. The fresher wound was his right shin, which protruded from his knee at an unnatural angle. Bits of bluish-grey bone stuck out through the skin and dripped more blood into the dirt. And he kept screaming, howling at the top of his lungs, while the chief instructor roared at him in a rage.
“Are you trying to beat your opponent by deafening him, Fenmore?” the man bellowed. “Do you think the enemy will show you mercy because you've fallen down? Do you think they'll give you a cup of tea and set you right before carrying on the battle? We're at war! You fight until you die with honour! Raise your point and get up!”
The encouragement continued until the boy named Fenmore stopped screaming, stopped writhing, stopped moving altogether. The chief instructor finally ordered a stretcher in disgust. The other boys went to get it, almost as hurt, almost as broken. Looking into their faces, though, their foremost emotion was not pity or concern for their wounded comrade. It was relief. Relief that it wasn't them.
Night fell. Everyone lay in their bunks in the dark, unable to sleep. The sound of boys weeping into their pillows echoed all through the room. Faro's toughness had earned him the top bunk of his set, so he had an invisible ceiling to stare at while lines of fire burned across his arms, his thighs and his whole torso.
“Do you think it'll happen again tonight?” whispered Numin, the boy in the bunk below. His voice trembled. So did his hands, it would seem, because his stick kept tapping against the wooden bedframe as he clutched it.
“I don't know.”
“I heard Benterro is gone. They say he smuggled a letter out and his parents came to collect him.”
“It's a lie. It always is.” The would-be squire rolled onto his side. “There are only two ways out of here, Min. You graduate, or you go home in a sack.”
“No, it's true! I know someone who saw them!” Numin chewed his lip. “I'm going to send a message tomorrow night if I can.”
“As you like. No skin off my back, only yours.”
Numin's tone turned bitter and petulant. “You're only saying that 'cause yours never came for you.”
The words stung to Faro's very core. Oh, he'd paid for that message. He would've never gotten it out without the decoy, the one they were meant to find. They bled him, but he took comfort in knowing his note was on its way to Rannetholm. It couldn't have failed. So he waited, for month after month, and yet...
No rescue. No reply. They'd chosen to forget him. He no longer existed except in this private version of Hell.
Faro shut his eyes tight. “Shut up, Min. Just shut up.”
“Hit a nerve, Ro?” the other boy asked, gloating, revelling in the knowledge that his words had hurt.
It all happened so fast, Faro didn't even have time to think about what he was doing. He rolled off his bunk and swung in on top of Numin, fists balled, pummeling the boy with every ounce of his superior strength while Numin thrashed and wailed. There was thud after meaty thud as Faro's blows found their mark.
Numin cried for help. No one lifted a finger. That was how it went.
Then, suddenly, the doors banged open. Lantern-light spilled into the dead blackness of the dormitory and the older boys charged in, sticks raised, howling their animal battle cries.
Faro looked at the bruised and beaten creature underneath him. This time, the horror wasn't dull, but a loathing so sharp it cut him deep inside. He couldn't blame this on the instructors, forcing him to commit the usual atrocities. This wasn't what a knight should be, nor what a squire should aim to become. This was wrong.
He let Numin's nightshirt slip from his fingers, transfixed by the revelations blasting through his brain. He took a hard look at himself and pulled back from the brink he hadn't even realised was there. They wouldn't break him. No matter what, he'd keep some of his light alive.
“Stay put,” he told the cowering, whimpering Numin. “Watch my back. Poke anyone who tries to get behind me.”
Faro grabbed his stick and leaped onto the nearest attacker, ready to defend his bunkmates to his last breath...
“Such a noble spirit,” I cooed, “but they finally broke you after all, didn't they? Don't worry. Forget. Forget, and rise.”
For the first time since his capture, Faro moved, but it wasn't any kind of healing. His glassy eyes didn't hold a glimmer more of life than they did before. He joined Racha in her pose of complete submission. His rough, emotionless voice echoed, “My Lord.”
This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong
They followed me out of the cage, took up weapons from the dead, and helped me to dispatch the surrounded remnants of Penn's forces. We gave no quarter. Anyone who tried to surrender was slaughtered on the spot.
We took only one prisoner. Nevick of Grenoke, who couldn't run fast enough to escape, now slowly dying from a surfeit of arrows in his gut and legs. No need to kill him quickly. He had no fight left.
With the camp secure, I called a meeting at the top of the pyramid, where I kicked Penn's lifeless body over the side and took his chair. Faro, Racha and Lytziri knelt before me. Yazizi hadn't moved, hadn't stopped praying, and I finally rolled my eyes and cut her loose.
The moment she felt the ropes part, she moved. A small, hidden knife appeared in her hand from somewhere. She plunged it unerringly into my throat. She spoke in Harari, yet I somehow understood: “Gods and ancestors, give me strength against abomination!”
I glanced down at the hilt of the knife sticking out of me, an oddly bloodless wound, and I laughed. One hand flicked the weapon away, then grabbed a handful of Yazizi's hair to hold her still.
“I have better uses for that killer inside you, girl,” I told her. “Show me your regrets, let me wipe them away, and rise...”
...The smells of the steppe flooded her nostrils. The crispness of a winter morning, the taint of horse dung, the calm east wind still fresh and fragrant from its journey through the Kingdom. It caressed her cheeks with its chill.
“It's good to be home again,” said the man beside her, resting one massive hand on her arm. The other stroked his long, braided moustache. “I have missed it. And you, my little flower.”
She snorted, “Dad, you're not wearing a shirt! You'll catch your death of cold.”
“It's good for a body to remember what it means to be cold, lest it get fat and comfortable in the sun.”
Patting her belly, she retorted, “Fifteen summers have left me no fatter, and you should still wear a shirt if you want to eat tonight.”
“Berila save me from the nagging of women.” He rolled his eyes, beseeching help from on high. None came. Defeated, he ducked inside the family tent to cover his bare chest in a jacket of horse fur.
Together they continued to watch the yellow-grey clouds roll toward the village. Others, too, were observing the strange and unusual weather. They weren't rainclouds, nor had the shaman forecast a lightning storm. Whispers went around, wondering if it could be a message from the gods.
Their confusion only grew when cold, white flakes of substance began to drift down onto their heads. It settled on tents, in the manes of unsheltered horses, on people's shoulders and in their hats or hair. The more exuberant children tried to catch the flakes or simply swat them out of the air. No one else knew what to make of it, except her father.
“I've heard of this. It happened once in your grandfather's time. He told me the Easterners have a word for it. Snow.”
“Really?” she asked curiously. She struggled to wrap her mind around the unfamiliar, foreign word. “Why put a name to somet
hing so rare?”
“Not rare in the East, little flower. Just as their grass and their wind is different, so are their seasons. Snow is supposed to happen there every winter. Your grandfather said it can cover the land until it becomes all you see from horizon to horizon.”
She scoffed. “Granddad also told me there's a vengeful little gnome who lives in your saddlebags and creeps out at night to give you sores.”
Scowling, her father said, “Your grandfather was not crazy.”
“So you keep saying, Dad.” She flashed him her smile, the one he could never resist, and his disapproval melted away.
He announced, “There'll be no hunting today. The game will go to ground, and we shall stay at home.”
Disappointment. She loved to ride with the tribe's hunters, stalking hares, desert foxes and wild horse with bow and javelin. Then the other men would congratulate her father on her skill, and they'd remark about what a fine woman she would become. The tiny handful of women who followed the path of Berila the Huntress would encourage her with smiles and little gifts of honour. They hoped she'd express a wish to become part of their sisterhood, and be allowed to do it by her father and the khan.
“Let's go back inside then, where it's warm.”
They went into their tent and gathered around the warm embers of last night's fire. A pile of soft hides formed their bed, and they lay down, undressing themselves as they went. Two warm bodies locked together in a mutual embrace. She gasped when he entered her, but as usual, it stopped hurting after only a little while. Then she moaned for him because she knew how much he liked it.
Without her mother to fulfill her wifely duties, by the customs of the Harari people, those duties fell to the eldest daughter. She fulfilled them without complaint. It was what her father needed, and therefore, what the tribe required of her. She still grieved, still cried at night for the mother she missed so bitterly, and though her father was a gentle man, serving his needs was not the place she would've wished for herself. Still, she took a kind of pride in every bit of pain she managed to soothe from his troubled mind.
Written in Blood Page 48
