“Quicker! I grow cold.”
There were forty of them up there, and another sixty riding two abreast behind. All were dressed for war, in cuirasses of rigid black leather, carrying raven pennants and lances. Their horses were the finest left in Nyve’s capacious stables. An impressive sight, but in truth Theor and Nyve alike had hoped for a still more assertive display of the Battle’s strength. Nothing, it seemed, was fated to follow the course mere mortals might hope for in these times. Wild Tarbains, unyoked to the creed, had been raiding out of the Tan Dihrin; two hundred Inkallim had been sent to quell this resurgence of the tribesmen’s long-quiescent martial ardour. In the disputed pine forests between Gaven-Gyre and Wyn-Gyre lands, woodsfolk had started bloody feuds; another hundred of Nyve’s swords had departed to impose a peace the rival Thanes seemed reluctant, or unable, to enforce. It all left Theor with a lesser escort than he had anticipated, but that disappointment he could easily accommodate. What he found troubling was the pattern of it all, the constant sense of incipient, aimless chaos.
He was shaken uncomfortably from side to side as his litter-bearers struggled to keep up with the riders ahead. Another of the roadside corpses swung across his rocking field of vision. These grim ornaments that Ragnor had hung along his road were another token of insidious decay. Three riots there had now been in Kan Dredar. None of them difficult for the High Thane’s warriors to put down; all of them surprising. Such rebellious, rampant demonstrations were unusual amongst the Bloods of the Black Road. Internecine violence was far from unknown, but these random eruptions of mindless strife were something new.
Could this be what the Kall felt like? Did the fated, promised destruction of this world begin in petty violence and murder? Mobs in the street, a na’kyrim raising himself up out of the chaos in the south?
The wooden gate in the palisade stood open. Behind it was a great ditch. Nyve’s ravens clattered across the bridge that led to the inner, stone gatehouse. Theor closed his eyes briefly, willing his mind to clear itself of doubt and distraction. He did not know quite what to expect from this audience, but recognised that he would be ill prepared to meet it if he could not shed his gnawing uncertainty. He heard the next huge iron gate clank open, and breathed out. He was, he forcefully reminded himself, no child, no callow youth or novice of the creed. He was the First of the Lore. There could be, should be, no one more capable of meeting such turbulent times with resolution. It was difficult, though, when lack of sleep blunted every thought.
The gigantic pitched roof of Ragnor’s Great Hall held no snow. Water dripped from its every eave. It would be hot inside, Theor knew as he clambered a little stiffly out from his litter. Ragnor kept his fires burning day and night. The First of the Lore stood before the mighty doors of the hall and stretched, digging his fingers into the muscles at the small of his back. The Battle Inkallim arrayed themselves across the hard earthen courtyard. He glanced at them, and adjudged them suitably stern and ordered. They made tidy ranks, and maintained a meticulous silence. A valuable demonstration for the dozens of Ragnor’s warriors who had gathered to watch that there were some, amidst the chaos, who still understood and practised discipline.
Ragnor’s silver-haired Master of the Hall came down the steps from the doorway to greet Theor, his fluid movements belying his advanced age. Theor suppressed a momentary twinge of jealousy. His own bones seemed to carry the clear memory, and weight, of every year he had lived. He made a point of ascending the steps slowly, with dignity, as he was ushered within.
Three great open hearths lay down the centre of the Great Hall. Fires roared in them, sending smoke billowing up into the roofspace, coiling its way around the multitudinous interwoven rafters. The fumes and the heat stung Theor’s eyes at first. He blinked and wrinkled his nose as he advanced towards the platform at the far end of the hall. All the benches and couches and rugs he passed by were unoccupied. This was unusual. More often than not, a good proportion of the High Thane’s household could be found in here, whether or not their presence was needful or useful.
Theor glanced up at the antlers and bearskins that adorned the walls. Ragnor oc Gyre was a man who liked to hunt, and many of these trophies were his own. The greatest of them, though-a vast splayed set of many-tined antlers that put Theor in mind of a pair of gigantic needle-clawed hands-were a legacy of the High Thane’s grandfather, who had won them after a hunt that famously had lasted a full day. The huge stag that once bore them had been a beast of some superstitious import to the Tarbains whose territories it roamed, and its death had done as much to subdue them as any number of burned villages and executed chieftains. A good day’s work in the service of the creed, that had been. Better than any Theor could remember Ragnor performing.
He cleared his throat, trying to cough away the dry taste of smoke, as he drew near the group assembled around the High Thane’s empty throne. It was a vainglorious confection, that great seat, draped in wolfskins. The sight of it always jarred with Theor’s instinct for austerity. But then there was much associated with Ragnor oc Gyre that jarred with Theor’s instincts.
The High Thane himself was absent. Theor was only slightly surprised to see with whom he would be awaiting Ragnor’s appearance: Vana oc Horin-Gyre stood there, with her arms folded, surrounded by a small group of attendants and maids.
“I heard a rumour that you might be in attendance today, my lady,” Theor said, inclining his head respectfully.
“The Hunt keeps you well informed, no doubt,” she replied with distant formality. The Horin Blood-and Vana’s late husband Angain in particular-had long been a most resolute and valued ally to the Inkallim, and to the creed. Indeed Vana herself had secretly delivered one of the High Thane’s own messengers into the hands of the Hunt, and thereby confirmed Ragnor’s connivance with the enemies of the Black Road. Theor wondered if his troubled mood led him to imagine the antipathy he now, unexpectedly, detected in Vana’s manner. He favoured her with a black-lipped smile, giving it a curl of apology.
“Avenn has many eyes, indeed. Their attention is often benign. They watch friends as closely as any.”
“If you say so.”
Vana had always been a fiercely independent woman, Theor knew. This, though, was more than that. There was hostility there, he was sure.
His ruminations were interrupted by the loud and expansive entrance of Ragnor oc Gyre. The High Thane came from a small door behind the throne, in mid-laugh as he burst into his Great Hall, the massive warriors of his Shield sharing in whatever jest so amused him. He wore a cloak of thick fur, a breastplate of polished nut-brown leather, a belt with a bright silver buckle the size of a man’s palm. And an expression that shed all its mirth in an instant as his eyes fell upon Theor and Vana standing there awaiting him.
He said nothing as he removed his sheathed sword from his belt and settled heavily onto the throne. He rested the metal-shod tip of the scabbard on the planking of the dais and leaned forward a little, both hands clasped about the hilt of the great weapon.
“I have had enough,” he said. “I have had enough of my people rioting in the streets of Kan Dredar. Of my farmers and smiths and miners and fishermen abandoning their labours and marching off into the south to fight your precious sacred war. Of bickering Thanes suddenly plaguing me with demands they be granted this piece of the Glas Valley, this town, that village, while they cannot even maintain order in their own lands.”
Theor looked from side to side.
“I would be grateful for a chair or bench,” he said placidly. “My old bones — ”
“This will not take long, First,” snapped Ragnor. Theor had expected the High Thane to at least wear a skin of respect. Apparently it was not to be, and that was unsettling.