A figure emerged from behind the crumbled remains of a wall. It was a woman, cloaked in hides, her face all but hidden by a fur hood. She halted and cast her eyes over them.
‘You are noisy,’ she said. Her voice was rough and harsh, as if the mountain frosts had got into it and cracked it just as they had the rocks of this lost city. Still, as soon as he heard her speak Orisian detected the residue of that lilting tone Inurian had. Na’kyrim, he thought.
Ess’yr said something cautiously in her own tongue. The woman gave a terse reply.
‘Yvane,’ Ess’yr said, and her usually level voice held a hint of relief.
‘Noisy and stupid, to be camped out here in weather like this,’ Yvane said, switching out of the Kyrinin tongue once more with ease.
‘Inurian told us to come here,’ said Orisian. ‘He said you would help us.’
The old na’kyrim fixed him with a glare that made him fear for a moment that they had made a terrible mistake in coming here. Then she turned on her heel and strode away.
‘Come then,’ she snapped as she went. ‘I can give you food and fire. But do not presume it is anything other than an offer of brief shelter for those in need.’
Nyve, first of the Battle Inkall, had only one ear. Where the other should have been there was a sprawling scar with a hole at its centre. Every Inkallim knew the story. When Nyve was young, freshly admitted to the lowest ranks of the Battle, he had been one of five tasked with guarding a group of Lore Inkallim walking from Kan Dredar to Effen, a remote town in Wyn-Gyre lands. Deep in the broken lands east of Effen they had come across a large band of Tarbain hunters: wild Tarbains, of a tribe then unyoked by the Gyre Bloods, unsaved by the true creed. Ignorant perhaps of what kind of warriors they faced, the Tarbains attacked. They had many hunting dogs with them, and Nyve lost his ear to one of those before he broke its back. Only Nyve and two of the Lore Inkallim survived, the bodies of more than a score of Tarbains heaped up around them.
They went on to Effen and there Nyve gathered fifty men of the town. He was young, but he was one of the Children of the Hundred and he had a fire burning in his eyes; no one dared to refuse him. He brought them to the scene of the battle, and followed the tracks of the Tarbain hunters back to their source. On the second evening, they found the village. They burned it and Nyve himself decapitated the skull-crowned chieftain and sent his head back to Effen. Then he returned, alone, to Kan Dredar.
Nyve was fifty-five now, and walked with a stoop. His fingers had gnarled with age, the joints swollen and locked. It had been some years since he could hold a sword, yet no one had tried to depose him as First. The mind housed within that faltering body was unblunted. Theor, First of the Lore, liked Nyve. He trusted him. They had risen together through the ranks of their respective Inkalls, and been installed as Firsts within a few months of each other.
They shared a bowl of fermented milk in Nyve’s chambers. It was narqan, a Tarbain drink adopted long ago by some of the northern Bloods; it had been the traditional liquor of the Battle Inkall for a hundred years. The First of the Battle had to hold his cup between his crippled knuckles. He set it down with practised precision and licked his lips as he watched Theor draining his own cup.
‘That was well done,’ Nyve said as Theor swallowed the last of it. ‘You drink it like one of the Battle . Better than you used to, at least.’
Theor gave a friendly grimace. He had little liking for narqan, but he was the guest here and was prepared to observe the customs of his host.
‘It does a man good to overcome his dislikes,’ chuckled Nyve.
‘I am grateful, as ever, for the opportunity to improve myself. How are your joints?’
Nyve regarded his hands as though they belonged to someone else. ‘They’re never at their best at this time of year. I think the wet and cold get into them, though no one seems to believe me; as if I’m not the best judge of it. Who’s to say what my own bones are doing better than I am?’
A serving boy came to remove the empty vessels. Nyve watched as he walked away. ‘That one’s second cousin to Lakkan oc Gaven-Gyre, you know. Or third, is it? His name’s Calum. I think there’s a certain family resemblance, don’t you?’
‘Poisonous ambition and arrogance are not often visible to the eye. They always think it’ll do them good to have one of their own inside,’ smiled Theor. ‘They do like to think there are some bonds even we cannot cut.’
‘Indeed. His parents were horrified when he told them he wanted to enter training, I believe. Lakkan insisted they let him follow his hope—because he wants his eyes and ears here, of course, rather than out of any concern for the boy’s desires. He shows some promise. He might even live to join the Battle .’
‘You keep him close, I am sure.’
‘Certainly. I wouldn’t want Lakkan to worry. And I sleep a little easier myself, knowing what he’s about. Just in case, you understand.’
The clash of arms rose from outside: candidates training in the yard. Nyve cocked his head to listen, contentment passing across his face like the track of a fond memory moving beneath the surface.
‘Has there been any word from the south?’ Theor asked.
‘Nothing new, since the victory at Grive. I’d thought it would have come to an end by now. The Book’s been far kinder to Kanin than I would have guessed.’
‘His faith gives him strength.’
‘That and the White Owls. By Shraeve’s account, they’d all likely be dead if that halfbreed hadn’t turned up with hundreds of woodwights at his back. Makes you wonder if we shouldn’t have taken a closer look at the na’kyrim when he was in Hakkan, while all of this was being planned.’
Theor nodded. The same notion had occurred to him when he heard the last reports from the Glas valley. ‘We thought we’d seen all we needed to see. The Hunt watched him closely. He spoke in his sleep, brooded alone; their judgement was that there was little to him but bitterness and the desires of a child. If he can get the White Owls running around at his beck and call they may have underestimated him, though.’
‘They may. Fate seems to be smiling upon Kanin’s adventure in a number of ways. I think Shraeve is starting to believe a great deal might be possible.’
‘Yes. That was how I understood her last message, too.’ Theor allowed his tone of voice to convey his meaning.
‘You doubt her judgement?’ Nyve asked.
‘Do you?’
The First of the Battle smiled. His teeth were yellowed and worn. ‘Perhaps I should send for more narqan, old friend, if you want to discuss Battle business.’
Theor raised his hands in mock horror. ‘There is no need for threats,’ he said.
‘Shraeve has served well since she came to us,’ Nyve said. ‘It would have taken more strength than I’ve left in this carcass to hold her back once she got wind of what Horin-Gyre was attempting. She’s never been one to take the smoothest path, but she’s proved her mettle. Her Road is one bounded by endeavour, and by strife. So be it.’
‘So be it,’ Theor echoed with a nod. He knew Nyve could have put an end to Shraeve’s ideas of going south, and of taking Kolglas, with a single, soft-spoken word. But there had been good reasons to give her free rein: it was many years since the Battle Inkall had tested itself against the old enemies beyond the Stone Vale, and Nyve had wanted a loyal pair of eyes to report on events and on the strange alliance Horin-Gyre had forged with the White Owls.
‘Still,’ sighed Nyve, ‘good fortune may be lapping at Kanin’s ankles so far, but he’ll need to be carried off his feet by a great flood of it if he’s to press his advance much further.’