“I am going to tell you what I want,” Ragnor said. He was rocking his sword back and forth very slightly on its tip, his glinting eyes fixed first upon Theor and then Vana oc Horin-Gyre.
“You, lady, are going to send word to your son beseeching him to return at once. Beseech, or implore, or command, or entreat. Whatever is required. I want him back here, with every man or woman of your Blood he can shepherd along with him.”
Vana drew breath to reply, but Ragnor flashed a warning hand towards her, palm outward.
“I am not done. Your husband started this madness. From what I hear, your son has become the least of the horses still running the race, but I want him out of it altogether. Perhaps if the people see those who set all of this in motion retiring from the fray, a flame of sense might be lit in their heads.
“And you, First,” Ragnor turned to Theor. He had the grace to moderate his tone a little, but still it was menacing. “You, I want to see exercising some of your vaunted authority in the service of the Bloods rather than the narrow interest of the Children of the Hundred.”
“The faith,” said Theor quickly. He could not keep a trace of resentment from his voice. “We serve the faith. Nothing else. The Bloods created us for that purpose, and we adhere to it.”
“Well, I say the faith is stumbling towards disaster. The people talk of the Kall; they churn themselves up into a frenzy. Why does the Lore remain silent? I want you to speak, First. Shed this unaccustomed shyness, and speak loud and clear to the people. Tell them that this is not the Kall. Tell them that the world is not about to be unmade. Tell them we are not fated to fritter away everything we have built here in this doomed war against an enemy we cannot yet defeat.”
Theor pursed his black lips. There was, he suspected, no response he could make save unequivocal submission that would satisfy the Thane of Thanes, and submission had played no part in the century-and-a-half history of the Lore. Whatever doubts, whatever unease he wrestled with, he had no intention of absolving Ragnor of his responsibility to advance the creed, whatever the odds, whatever the cost.
“And have Nyve rein in this she-raven of his who seems to be set upon causing as much trouble as possible,” Ragnor muttered. “I should never have permitted Shraeve to go south with Kanin in the first place.”
“Permitted?” said Theor softly. Ragnor glowered at him.
“Am I the only one who sees the ruin we rush towards?” cried the High Thane in exasperation. “Grain rots in barns because there aren’t enough hands to mend the roofs. Cattle fall sick because half the herdsmen who should be watching over them have gone off in some mad trance believing they can storm Kolkyre single-handedly. We run short of furs. Furs! Because the Tarbains who should be hunting for them have rushed off in search of loot, and those who remain are suddenly possessed of an urge to relearn the banditry of their forefathers.”
He sprang to his feet and stamped towards the door behind his throne.
“There are brawls in the quietest of villages. The slightest of arguments erupts into murder. The orders I send south go unanswered or unheard. My messengers fall silent or disappear. Why? What madness has taken root?”
He threw open the portal and gestured, beckoning some unseen attendants beyond it. Theor glanced sideways at Vana, but the woman maintained a stern and dignified stillness, gazing ahead impassively. If she was troubled or distressed, she concealed it well.
In answer to the High Thane’s summons, three prisoners were hauled out onto the dais by guards: two men and a woman. They were forced to kneel in a line, facing Theor and Vana. Theor frowned, and then raised his eyebrows in startled anticipation of might follow.
“This man,” said Ragnor, jabbing a finger at the first of the dishevelled captives, “was passing through Kan Dredar on his way to the Stone Vale. He’s one of yours, lady. He took it upon himself to knife two men in a tavern brawl, and then to attempt the same upon the Guards sent to arrest him.
“This — ” he advanced down the line, and indicated the second kneeling prisoner “-is the ringleader of a mob from Ramarok on the coast. They were hungry because the seal hunters have gone south. They thought a family was hoarding food, so they burned them out of their house and slaughtered them-husband, wife, children-in the street. Clubbed them to death. Then they set upon one another. Killed another dozen.”
The High Thane stood behind the last of them: a long-haired young woman who was calmly watching Theor. The First returned her gaze, sensing that there was some meaning or intent in it, but unable to tease it out. Ragnor looked down at the woman, curling his lip in contempt. He grabbed a handful of her hair and shook her head roughly.
“This,” he snarled, “this one I am not sure of. She might be a mere tool, a mere agent. Or perhaps she is the thing itself: one of Avenn’s shadow-haunters. I don’t know, and I don’t care.” He shot a meaningful glance at Theor. “If she’s of the Hunt itself, I don’t care. She was rousing the villagers in the lands around Effen, preaching the coming of the Kall, filling them with the fire they needed to send them off across the Vale of Stones. All but emptied three villages, she did, and when she was commanded to cease, she disappeared, only to be found repeating her game two days later.”
Ragnor released the woman, slapping her hard across the back of the head as he stepped away. Guards moved into place behind each of the prisoners. They held cords in their hands.
“Ragnor, wait,” Theor said, taking a pace forward. He did not know if the woman was one of the Hunt, but if she was…
“No,” Ragnor said flatly. “I have no patience left, First. I will not wait any longer, for anything or anyone.” He nodded to the guards.
Theor stepped back. Vana, he realised, was not watching; she was staring up at a ram’s skull mounted high on the wall, pouring her attention into the polished bone, the curled horn. The cords slipped around necks. They were twisted tight at once. They dug into skin. Mouths stretched open, tongues fluttered. Eyes gaped. The woman struggled to rise, but the guard behind her kicked the back of her knee and pushed her down again. On each of the three throats a red blush spread; muscles and sinews stood despairingly taut. Something collapsed with a soft crunch.
A distorted rattle escaped the woman’s throat. Her executioner redoubled his efforts, tightening, crushing. One of the men-the one from Ramarok-died first. Then the woman, then the Horin man. They fell, or were pushed, forward, and lay crumpled on the dais.
Ragnor oc Gyre scuffed the woman’s long hair away from her face, exposing her protruding tongue and the string of saliva loosed from her mouth.
“Do you see?” the Thane of Thanes murmured. “Do you understand? I have gibbets and stakes and pyres aplenty. If I have to fill them all, use every one of them, I will have an end to this. However many have to die, I mean to cure us of this madness. This disease. I have had enough.”
Theor’s litter-bearers hurried to take up their positions, and watched him expectantly as he emerged onto the steps outside the Great Hall. It was snowing once more. The hundred Battle Inkallim were still spread across the yard in a great arc. Theor stood just outside the doors, rubbing his hands together. They tingled uncomfortably at the sudden transition from the warmth of the hall into the day’s bitter chill.
Vana oc Horin-Gyre appeared at his side. She paused, pulling up the seal-trimmed hood of her cloak. Her attendants hurried to fetch their horses from wherever they had been stabled.
“I saw a bear slain on the day of your husband’s interment,” Theor said quietly. “Ragnor’s own Shield quilled its breast with crossbow bolts. You saw it too. The High Thane himself laughed that it might be an omen, of the fall of a great lord or a sudden change in the order of things.”