The Season of the Plough

by Luke R J Maynard

  TEN

  DEREC HAD THE HABIT of throwing evens when it came to distasteful jobs. Few things in the world could be relied on, Kellan thought, but Derec throwing evens was just one of those things. He was too lame to throw proper, having taken an arrow through the right shoulder some years back—it was the reason he’d been reassigned from the Grand Army out east to taking the census—and now he waggled his hand over his head like an alms beggar when he tossed lots. But if Kellan had had any faith left in a morally ordered world, it evaporated that morning, when Derec waggled his hand over his head and somehow threw odds.

  “My arse,” he cursed as Derec laughed.

  “Looks like you’re the lucky winner, Kellan Fyldron,” said Derec.

  “Amn’t I always,” said Kellan.

  As far as hangings went, it was an extremely rushed affair. A suitably high piece of furniture to ensure a clean death had to be commandeered, and the rope had to be slung over a bough of the big oak tree, but that was really all it took. On the insistence of some of the soldiers, though, Castor Stannon was forced to establish the prisoner’s likeness by sorting through every silver coin in their possession until an old “Celithrand rider” could be found. On the tailside, an armoured knight led a mounted charge against whatever enemies—famine, thirst, the law, the want of a good time—the coin was spent to defeat. On the headside, a stern and sad old druid in a wreath of oak leaves cast his face toward the left edge, as if vigilant against all those enemies he had fought in the name of Travalaith.

  There was no mistaking him. This man was a treasure of the Empire, and now a traitor to it. And Kellan Fyldron was about to go down in history as the man who hanged him. It was not an honour he wanted.

  “Every druid who wants revenge,” he grunted, measuring the rope. “Every white-haired grandmother of the Oldborn who remembers what good he once did. Every uppity little turd who carries steel for the Mage. Every convict slave who could have been free, every man or woman or child whose father or grandfather died of the Aldwode. Every one of them is going to hear my name and come looking for me, all because my big arse is the counterweight on the end of this stupid rope.”

  “Better yours than mine,” said Derec. “And you’re twice my size, you lummox. It’ll be a cleaner hanging just the same.”

  “Have you two got it sorted?” Castor Stannon was behind them suddenly, his face unreadable as he strode back to the tree. He had the air of being impatient, and the habit of being thorough. It was an immensely unpleasant combination.

  “Aye,” said Kellan. “I’m your man.”

  “Good. If there’s to be no further delay, then—”

  “There’s been too much delay already, sir,” Kellan growled. “I say, stick a sword in him and be done with it. Death’s a house with a thousand doors. Makes no difference to Dagan how you come in.”

  “It’s not the God of Death I aim to satisfy,” Castor countered. “An execution by hanging has a greater air of legitimacy to it than running a man through.”

  “Aye, sir. It’s positively genteel till his bowels let go.” With a challenging snort, Kellan hurled the noose over a thick bough and stood holding the slack end, looking incredulous and unimpressed. “We’re civilized out here, we are. A passerby might mistake me for a Magistrate.”

  Castor frowned. “Refresh my memory, soldier. Was I given command of two dozen men?”

  “Aye.”

  “And their tongues also?”

  Kellan bowed his head. “Aye, m’lord.” He did not wait to hear if there was more, but went to haul up the prisoner. Celithrand was still manacled, and those manacles were bound loosely with rope to a heavy barrel. He did not seem to protest as Kellan pulled a long dagger from under his left arm and cut him free. He had the height and slight shape of an aeril, but even so, he was leaner than Kellan expected. His face was serene but sad.

  “It’s your time, old man,” he said, and Celithrand stood up with some difficulty.

  “When one lives long enough,” said Celithrand, “one forgets the possibility of death.”

  “Many things are possible,” Kellan said sullenly. “Death is certain, if you’re patient enough.”

  Celithrand forced a laugh as the two began walking over. “I could stand to wait a few more years,” he said.

  “We’ve found a high-backed chair,” said Kellan, matter-of-factly. “The higher you can stand, the better it will go for you. Get up on the arms. I’ll try to let you drop some when I kick it out, and I’ll hoist you hard. If you’re brave enough—some men are—you can jump some. No need to suffer. I’ll be as clean as I can.”

  “I don’t suppose I should thank you,” said Celithrand sourly.

  “No,” said Kellan. “I don’t suppose you should.”

  The chair had belonged to Owen, son of Orin; when consulted, the townsfolk decided to give up one dead man’s seat to another, and destroy it when the deed was done so no ill luck came back on any man living. It was a tall cedar chair, still sweet-smelling, with high arms. Celithrand placed one foot on it willingly before he froze and had to be forced. He had been alive a long, long time, then—far longer than any ordinary man, even among the Oldborn, and longer too than most of the aerils who had lived in his Age. He was surprised to find that he, like any other, was afraid of what awaited him. He gave thought to how he should have left the world, perhaps long ago, and what uneasy afterlife this end might bring. And perhaps, only for a moment, he thought with some regret of the Imperator, who had once been a friend and comrade to him, a man who would not and should not have sent him to die. Then Kellan’s meaty hands were hard on his ankle, twisting it up onto the arm of the chair.

  “Come on,” said the soldier, not unkindly. “If you’ve any last words, best get them out of your neck now.”

  “Take her to the Druids,” he called out, loudly, to no one in particular. “To Dær Móran. The prophecy must be fulfilled!” That was all.

  When the moment came, Celithrand could not and did not jump. His name and supposed crime were read again, and the sentence was pronounced, and Castor Stannon acknowledged the deed by all his power as some sort of petty official—and then the time for death was at hand, and he was not ready. Kellan, now hooded as an executioner, waited as long as he dared.

  “Well?” said Castor Stannon impatiently. Behind the mask, Kellan sighed.

  “They never go easy, do they,” he said, and kicked out the chair with all his strength.

  If Celithrand was accused of teaching sorcery, his reputation was not at all helped by what happened next. Whether by some unseen rot in the great-tree of Widowvale’s green, or by some magic he had held in check, the bough of the old oak did not take his weight hard, but bent under the strain like a willow-branch. Celithrand drooped nearly to the ground, the tips of his boots brushing the tall grass, before Kellan cursed and caught him up, hauling him hard against the strain of the bending branch. The old man choked at the rope but his neck did not break; his arms and legs jerked madly as his desperate body tried to dance away from the death that now caressed him, calling him on gently. It would not wait for long.

  Kellan spat into the dirt with frustration as he sank his weight and dug into the rope; for all his efforts, this death was going to be a long and hard one. Castor watched intently but impartially, his face a mask that only hinted at a vague displeasure. Derec came over, in the end, to lend his strength to the line as the bough bent a little farther than was right for a limb of such thickness.

  The great oak was not far from the tree line that ran the length of the escarpment on the north side of town. Aewyn’s plan, initially, had been to come from that direction under deep cover, put an arrow in each of Celithrand’s handlers as he was brought to the tree, and hope he had the good sense to make for the woods. She knew him well enough to know that he would be gone within ten paces, and not this Castor nor any of the other dozen new names she had heard and forgotten that day would find him again. She imagined, too, that she could outrun
and outmanoeuvre any of the mailed and mounted men once they reached the top of the ridge. But that plan was now lost to her: she arrived around the back of Alec Mercy’s house, out of breath and shaking with terror and anger as she caught sight of Celithrand hanging in midair, his manacled hands jerking up and down behind him as his legs kicked tightly together, rocking and spinning him on the end of a fat rope.

  Standing more or less out of sight of the soldiers, she hastily nocked an arrow and sighted down the man holding the rope. He was a big, broad man, and a sizable target at this distance, larger than some of the targets she had hit the day before. But she had never taken a human life, nor imagined herself as the sort who would; and now that it came to it, even at twenty times the distance of a sword, she could not will her shaking hands to do the terrible deed. At the end of his rope, Celithrand swung struggling. It felt like it had been long minutes since she heard the drop, but it could not have been. Why couldn’t she shoot?

  In desperation, paralyzed against the executioner and confronted by her old friend’s death throes, she took aim at the rope suspending him in midair. She had heard of such shots attempted, had even seen some trick shooting done in the tournaments. And if she was to be a champion of some kind, now was the moment to put that providence to the test.

  “Destiny,” she breathed, and loosed an arrow at the rope.

  At this distance, in this wind, it wasn’t even close. Her first arrow went hopelessly high, whistling through the branches of the oak and vanishing. Her second and third were perhaps two or three hands from the rope, which was swaying gently from Celithrand’s weakening struggles. By that time, the sound and path of the arrows had been noted. With a shout of “Archer!” from one of the soldiers, the crowd (for it was a hanging after all) erupted into a thunderous murmur, and the surrounding soldiers kicked their horses toward the prisoner, looking for the source of whatever arrows they had seen. In fright, she threw herself behind the building and bit into her lip in fear, anger, helplessness. Then, with renewed resolve, she emerged from her hiding place again. If she could not touch the rope, she would hit whatever she could.

  Kellan let out a sudden grunt. “Ow,” he exclaimed, though not loudly.

  The pain, at first, had come from nowhere. The sting of an arrow was not completely unfamiliar, but neither was it so commonplace that he knew at once what had happened. He looked down and saw the shaft coming out of his chest; it was clean through his purple tabard, had pushed through his mail-coat, and had buried itself close by the heart in the thick muscle of his chest. Shock, more than the wound, compelled him to release his grip on the rope. He had seen men hit there who died very unkind deaths—some within a few minutes, others hours or days later. But the pain was not unbearable; he tested the muscle and found it ready enough, and praised both his luck and his armour before turning his gaze in the direction of the arrow-shaft. A young girl, fierce-eyed and determined with hair the red of autumn leaves, notched a second arrow. Kellan saw the correction for the first shot, incremental movements as she turned her arrow-point to his companion and raised her aim to his unhelmed head.

  “There!” he cried, and pointed towards the girl, who loosed a second shot and disappeared behind cover.

  Derec let go the rope as Kellan tackled him from behind, knocking him out of the arrow’s path and taking the wind from him as well. Celithrand tumbled weakly to the ground, and Derec waited for the furious orders that were sure to issue from Castor Stannon’s mouth. But no order came, save a shriek of pain that barely sounded human. He turned his head in time to watch the Censor go straight down to the earth behind him, with an arrow well and firmly lodged in his eye. Blood and worse things streamed down his face as his limbs twisted in shock and agony.

  “Kill him!” he screamed. “Kill the archer!”

  Most of the Imperial soldiers were mounted. Most of the Havenari, for the moment, were not. As the soldiers charged in the direction Kellan indicated, steel flashing into their hands, the Havenari pushed quickly and deliberately in front of the crowds, where mayhem was ready to turn loose.

  “Hold the line!” Robyn shouted. “Keep them out of the way!”

  But for that one order, the chaos would have been complete. The crowd was screaming and shouting, and many were fleeing from the scene, while the soldiers, now leaderless and under fire, imagined the archer to be somewhere among the villagers who were fleeing. They had gone in the direction of Alec Mercy’s house, where Aewyn was pinned. Scattered and disorganized at first, they quickly tightened rank and gained focus as they gauged the distance and pushed their horses to a thundering gallop. They were nearly on top of her hiding-place when the karach hit them.

  Most of these men were too young to have fought in the Stonewind Clearances. More than a few had seen full-sized karach before, though Poe could not have known this. Few, though, had ever faced one in combat—and the horses, certainly, had never suffered such ill fortune, nor been trained for it. When he burst from the shadow of Alec Mercy’s house at speed, claws and teeth fully bared, the first line of horses reared in terror as the second halted its charge and the third barrelled into the second. Slamming into the underbelly of a rearing horse at speed, ducking the panicked blows of its hooves, Poe pushed his full strength against the overbalanced beast and shoved it backward into the air, toppling it sidelong into the rank behind it in a mass of alarm and kicking legs. The horses panicked—perhaps the sudden smell of a predator did not help matters—and although the riders were seasoned for battle, they were too busy fighting their terrified mounts to give answer with their long pikes. Poe’s claws and teeth tore desperately at exposed horseflesh wherever he could find it, for he knew he would not get through the armour of the soldiers (in truth, he was no seasoned fighter and too afraid to contend with them). In a flash the smell and spray of hot horseblood was everywhere, breaking the momentum of the back ranks who were only now catching up with the first. The shriek of the horses was deafening, and suddenly the only smell on the air was the stink of war.

  Those at the back had drawn their swords, and echoes of “the karach!” were now in the air. With more strength and panic than technique, Poe seized one of the riders who had fallen stunned from his horse and heaved him bodily, armour and all, into the horse and rider that blocked his most direct path to the old druid, who lay on the ground as if dead. Mounts threw their riders and scattered in his wake, stampeding through the narrow space between the houses. One rider was skilled enough to right himself just long enough to bring his pike to bear, swiping at the karach from behind. Aewyn darted from cover again in time to put an arrow in the soldier’s side, but she crossed into the path of the panicked horses and went down with a shriek beneath the onslaught of their hooves.

  “Aewyn!” Poe called.

  “Go,” she pleaded. “Save him!” He could smell the woody scent of her blood—she was hurt—but it was not overpowering, and the riders gathering their wits and rounding on him were sure to be. He held them only a moment, snarling and snapping at the horses, until she had crawled away under Alec’s workbench. Now that his blood was up, Poe was more aware than he could have imagined of a battlefield whose descent into chaos was highly selective. Behind him and at his side, a tangle of bloodied horses and men were desperately regrouping to turn back on him and run him down as Aewyn slithered weakly toward safety. Surrounding the clear field before him were terrified townsfolk, held back by the Havenari. The soldiers might have brought him down with arrows, but were hesitating—though he had not the time to determine if it was for fear of the battle, or on orders from their captain. At the edge of the village green, the leader of the city-men was being dragged away from the chaos by a towering brute with an arrow in his chest. Only one man stood directly between him and Celithrand’s shuddering body. As the karach lowered into a ferocious charge, Derec met it with steel.

  Derec was lame in one shoulder, but he was a seasoned veteran. More than the others, he had seen his share of karach charges. The gene
ration who trained him had seen even more of them during the Clearances. Always the brutes entered the fray in the same manner when unarmed, their dagger teeth bared and leading. Derec drew his sword silently as the karach approached and swung it, too soon, with a ferocious yell.

  Poe watched the blade come down and miss him, anticipating his arrival too early and careening uselessly toward the earth. He had the full speed of his charge behind him then, and might have kept on going, burying his claws at full strength; but remembering Bram’s words, he broke his charge and turned awkwardly aside as the fallen tip of Derec’s sword bounced up and thrust suddenly forward, cleaving into the space where the unarmoured, heedlessly charging karach should have been. It was this strike, the committed killing blow, from which Derec’s recovery was slow. By the time he had stopped the forward thrust of the sword, the massive karach was inside his guard. What happened then was a grisly end fifteen years in the making, as Poe’s terror turned to desperate fury and the purple-cloaked warrior, like enough to the one who had burned his family, seemed suddenly as soft and wet as so much mutton in his jaws.

  “Kill it!” came Castor Stannon’s wail across the green, and indeed the men who were rallying were ready to try. But having reached the object of his explosive charge, and not being naturally inclined to the carnage he had just wrought, Poe had no interest in standing his ground to test whether Bram’s advice would serve him just as reliably twenty times in a row. With as much gentleness as he could muster while his nerves buzzed and his breath came with ragged fear, Poe hoisted the old druid into his arms and made for the treeline. A desperately hurled dagger or two nearly cut short his flight—one of them, twirling end over end, caught him hard in the side of the neck with its pommel, a half-turn away from ending his story. But there was no catching him after that: the light coursers of the Travalaithi Grand Army were swift as the wind, when they chose to be, but with the stink of an ancestral predator all about them, and drenched as they were in the blood of other horses, they were not inclined to give pursuit. Trained though they were for battle, the horses fought their rising panic and their own riders in equal measure, and those few horsemen who spurred their steeds on could not immediately coax them to a full gallop. Some of the men poured into the trees; some dismounted there in the hopes they would find the karach hiding in the undergrowth. Most, after the display on the village green, simply hoped they would bravely seek him without a shred of success.