His horse tore at the grass. The rain was getting heavier; great fat drops pattered down upon them.
Kanin shivered. He preferred the clean, dry snow of his homeland to this dank kind of winter.
'Lord,' someone shouted. 'Wights.'
Kanin ducked around behind his horse and followed the pointing arm of the warrior.
There were Kyrinin moving, rushing out from a woodland and on to the flat fields and bogs of the valley.
Dozens, then scores. They spilled out in a great wave that flowed over the rushes and through the scrub towards the great River Dihrve. Towards its mouth, and Koldihrve.
'Is it White Owls, or Fox?' Kanin demanded.
No one replied. At this distance, they could not tell.
'Woodwights!' cried Kanin in frustration. Even now, when he had thought himself rid of them, the petty games that Aeglyss and his savages had set in motion were plaguing him.
'It must be the White Owls,' suggested Igris, peering through the sheets of rain now crashing down.
'They're making for that Fox camp by the river mouth.'
Kanin swung up into the saddle. Rain pelted his head and back. Everyone was rushing, filling the air with cries and the clatter of weapons. He did not hear it. He turned his horse in the direction of Koldihrve.
The future was there, waiting for him, and he could only advance into it. His sword was naked in his hand.
'The slaughterhouse calls us,' he shouted. 'We ride!'
VIII
BEHIND THE TENT where the Voice of the White Owls dwelled, in a stone-lined pit beneath a roof of oak beams that had been turned hard as rock by time and smoke and heat, the torkyr burned. Through day and night, snow and wind, the clan fire would burn all winter long, tended by the chosen guardians who fed it and watched over it. When spring came, and the Voice had chanted over the flames, and the people began to disperse, each a'an would take away a single burning brand, so that in all the campfires of their summer wanderings through the furthest reaches of Anlane they carried with them a fraction of the clan's bright soul.
It was to the Voice's tent that the band of warriors brought Aeglyss the na'kyrim, bound and gagged by thongs of leather. They tied him to a song staff rising from the ground outside the Voice's tent, and sat cross-legged to wait. They waited for many hours. The sun walked across the sky. Clouds, the scattered raiment of the Walking God, came and went. The na'kyrim moaned and bled from his wrists and from the corners of his mouth where the gag had cut his skin. At length a small child, her hair dyed berry-red and holes pierced in her cheeks, came out from the tent and beckoned one of the warriors to come inside. After an hour he re-emerged and gave a slow nod. The na'kyrim was untied and ungagged and brought into the presence of the Voice.
She was an ageing woman, with skin creased and folded by the years and hair the colour of the moon on water. There were others within - the wise, the a'an chiefs of last summer, the singers and chanters and buriers of the dead and the kakyrin with their necklaces of bone — but it was the Voice alone who spoke with the na'kyrim.
They talked for a long time, the old woman and the halfbreed, and of many things. They talked of the clan's history and of its struggles against the Huanin in the War of the Tainted and the centuries since.
They talked of the evil done by those who ruled in the city in the valley, their axes and fire that cleared the trees from White Owl lands, and their herds of cattle that reached ever further into Anlane; of the na'kyrim' s life, his flight from the White Owl as a child and eventual return, bearing gifts and promises from the cold men of the north. Through it all, the judgement was being formed, built out of the threads of the past that led to the present. Only at the end did they talk of alliances forged in necessity, and of hopes and expectations betrayed.
The Voice asked him, softly, why the lord whose army had passed through the White Owl's forest now turned away his friends and forgot them. Why the promises of friendship the na'kyrim had made on that lord's behalf were now so much dust. The na'kyrim had no answer to that, but spoke instead in the evil way he had. He spoke, as the White Owls now understood that he had so often before, with a tongue that made truth out of lies, that corrupted the mind's strength and turned judgements inside out.
Had there not been so many of them there in the Voice's tent, they might have been deceived, but they had prepared themselves for the dangers of this na'kyrim. Some cried out and sang to drown his poisonous words; others belaboured him with sticks.
He begged and pleaded but there had, in the end, to be a reckoning. However long his absence, he had been one of the people once, and he was theirs to do with as they would. The Voice gave her judgement and he was dragged out of her presence.
The na'kyrim struggled and shouted as they bore him away from the vo'an, and spoke in a way that threatened to lay wreaths of mist around the thoughts of the warriors. They beat him with the hafts of spears until he was still and silent. Then they carried him up above the valley. Up and up they climbed, until the trees grew wind-bent and the grass beneath their feet became coarse and rough. They climbed into the afternoon, until they pierced the roof of Anlane and came out upon the moors that formed a borderland between forest and sky. And still they went on amongst the rocky ridges and ravines. In time they began to descend again, and at last, upon a promontory of rock that was closely fringed by trees, they came to the Breaking Stone.
The great boulder — the height of two men - stood alone, resting where the Walking God had left it.
The Breaking Stone was patterned by lichens older than the clan, older than the Kyrinin. Over and amongst their innumerable pale green and grey shades lay darker stains. Black streaks that would never now be washed away, they scarred the great rock, running down like the tracks of midnight tears from two neat, smooth-sided sockets high upon its face.
The warriors laid the na'kyrim on the ground and stripped his clothes from his body. In that muted evening light his skin looked fragile, ashen. He stirred, but they held him firm. They gagged him with a stone wrapped in a strip of cloth. One of them brought out two sharpened, hardened shafts of willow, each the length of an arm and thicker than a man's thumb. The na'kyrim writhed. The Kyrinin worked quickly lest he should attempt some trick upon them using his secret skills. They raised his arms and held them tightly as the shafts, twisted and turned to force their way, were driven through his wrists. The na'kyrim screamed around his gag and fell into unconsciousness.
Two warriors climbed atop the Breaking Stone and, using ropes of plaited grass tied around his chest, raised him up its face. They held him there while a third reached down and manipulated the willow stakes until they slotted into the sockets in the stone. They slid in, the stone welcoming them as it had dozens of their like before, and the na'kyrim hung there, crucified upon the Breaking Stone.
IX
HUNCHING DOWN AGAINST the rain, Orisian and the others crossed the long boardwalk across the mouth of the River Dihrve. Weed and barnacles coated the walkway's supports below the waterline; rot was at work on the parts above. It felt safe enough — the Dihrve was a sluggish, unthreatening thing here at its mouth - but Orisian wondered how much of a life it had left to it.
They had woken to dark skies and miserable rain that gathered strength with every minute. When Orisian said that he was going to find Ess'yr and Varryn, he had half-hoped he could go alone; instead
Yvane, Anyara and Rothe all accompanied him. He did not feel he could refuse them.
As they made their way along the shore to the river crossing, he had asked Yvane if an unannounced visit would cause a problem. The na'kyrim dismissed the idea.
'They're not so stiff about such things here,' she said. 'There'd not be so many na'kyrim around if they were.'
'Ten, Hammarn said,' Orisian remembered. 'We haven't see any. Are they hiding?'
'It can't have escaped your notice that everyone keeps themselves to themselves around here. They're all on edge now: everybody's nervous, smells troub
le on the wind.'
She was right about the ease of entering the vo'an. No one tried to stop them as they came off the rickety bridge and walked amongst the tents. It was not, in fact, as disconcerting a place to enter as Koldihrve had been the day before. There was none of the boot-sucking mud that greeted a visitor to the human settlement - rush matting was spread in broad pathways — and none of the dark glares or muttered asides. It felt safer than the human town, at least to Orisian. The feeling did not last for long.
There was a crowd gathered in the centre of the vo'an, in a space where the bare earth had been trodden over countless years into the consistency of rock. As they approached the back of the crowd Yvane nudged Orisian with her elbow and pointed discreetly at a pole planted a few paces away. It was bedecked with horns, strings of threaded teeth and animal skulls. The bones looked fresh and unweathered.
'That's bad,' Yvane whispered. 'A war pole. Means they're expecting deaths.'
The Kyrinin crowd stirred gently at their arrival. There was a foul smell, Orisian realised, foul enough to make him almost gag. The crowd thinned a little before them; it let them see what stood at its centre.
A wooden frame was there, of the sort used to suspend a carcass while it was butchered. Upon the frame was bound a naked, lifeless Kyrinin. His head hung forwards and his white hair had fallen across his face like a shroud. From shoulder to hip, long thin strips of skin had been peeled back, wound on sticks. The flaying had left livid, gory bands of raw flesh exposed. He had been disembowelled, so that his entrails spilled forth to pile upon the ground beneath him. His groin was a bloody mess. An ordurous stench hung suffocatingly in the air and Orisian felt bile in his mouth as his stomach twisted itself. He heard Anyara's faint moan of disgust even as he turned away. Three young Fox children were standing close by. They watched him with bland curiosity. One had a bow and quiver - little more than toys - in his tiny, fine hands.
Then Ess'yr was coming around the edge of the crowd. Her brother was a little behind her.
'You should go,' said Ess'yr.
'We're leaving,' Orisian told her. 'On the ship. I wanted to say goodbye.'
'We will come to you.'
'It'll have to be soon. We'll be gone today.' He felt a sharp pang of apprehension. He could not leave her behind without talking to her. To him, if not to her, it was a parting that needed to be marked. He saw that Varryn was regarding him with unreadable eyes.
'Soon,' Ess'yr said, and he heard a promise in her gentle voice. 'But not now.'
'We'd better go,' Rothe said quietly. 'I don't think this is a good place to be now.'
Reluctantly, Orisian agreed. Ess'yr was already turning away, and he was suddenly afraid that he might not see those beautiful features again. He might have tried to call her back, but did not.
Yvane had been talking quietly with a Fox woman, and now rejoined them, her face troubled.
'Let's go,' she said.
The four of them walked together out of the camp and over the bridge into Koldihrve. The rain was soaking. It churned up the surface of the river.
'They really are savages,' Anyara murmured.
'They are,' agreed Rothe, and then to Orisian's faint surprise added softly, 'but I've seen worse things done by humans.'
'They caught that White Owl not far from here,' Yvane said as they stepped back on to the human side of the river. 'From the sound of it, there's a lot more where he came from. Very close. There's going to be a good deal of blood spilled.'
'Today?' Rothe asked.
'Probably. They say there're scores of White Owls. And your friends from Horin-Gyre too.'
'Wait, wait,' hissed Orisian, slowing suddenly.
The others looked questioningly at him, and he nodded down the street. Four or five men were standing in the sheeting rain. They were indistinct figures, shapeless cloaks hiding any detail, but nothing about them suggested goodwill. Yvane squinted at them, flicking rainwater from her brow.
'I thought you said you didn't upset Tomas yesterday,' she said.
'I didn't,' Orisian muttered. 'We parted on the best terms I could manage.'
He was casting about for another path to take. Every instinct told him this was something more than the simple observation Tomas had kept them under since they arrived in Koldihrve. Already, the men were moving, coming towards them. He could see weapons: staffs and cudgels.
'I'll deal with them,' Rothe growled. There was something close to relish in his voice.
'No,' Orisian said. 'No fighting unless we have no choice. We'll go around them, get out to the ship.'
Inside, the thought was ringing in his head that he should have called Ess'yr back when she turned away from him. But it was too late for that.
'Down here,' he said and led them into a side street. 'Yvane, can you find the way to Hammarn's house?'
'I should think so.' She brushed past him to take the lead.
The alley narrowed, so that they had to trot along in single file. They passed the backs of small houses and shacks. There were no doors, and the few windows were shuttered. Water was spouting from the roofs, drenching them. The ground was slick mud, constantly treacherous, and littered with broken bits of wood, empty barrels and discarded pots.
'There's a street up ahead,' Yvane called. 'It's easy from there.'
They burst out on to the road, splashing through puddles. The mud was viscous and clinging. Rothe slipped to one knee and Orisian helped him up.
'Oh, dear,' Yvane said.
Tomas stood facing them, no more than a dozen paces away. Ame was with him, and three other men of his Watch. The First Watchman wore a thick woollen cloak and held a longsword.
'The very folk we sought,' Tomas rasped.
'I see you've taken that sword down from your wall,' Orisian said. 'Why is that?'
Rothe was stepping forwards, but Orisian put a restraining hand on his arm without taking his eyes from Tomas.
'Because it might be I've been played for a fool, that's why,' Tomas growled.
'We don't take kindly to being taken for fools by those as think they're our betters,' Ame added from behind Tomas. He was eyeing Orisian with a kind of malevolent eagerness. Orisian was acutely, almost agonisingly, aware that he was unarmed. The moment felt pregnant with violence, the hissing rain filled with a pressure that was going to demand release. He and Tomas faced each other.
'Word from the Black Roaders is they're hunting two runaways. Boy and girl,' said the First Watchman, his eyes flicking from Orisian to Anyara and back again, 'perhaps travelling with Fox Kyrinin, perhaps with a warrior. And not just any ordinary folk these: kin of the Thane himself. Word is there's reward to be had for any who take hold of them, and nothing but strife for those as aids them.'
'You told me no one would trouble us, if we gave no cause,' Orisian said. He spat rainwater away from his lips. It felt like the air itself was turning to water, like breathing would be impossible soon.
'Cause, is it?' snapped Tomas. 'Well, I've cause enough. I've a town to keep safe from harm. We want no part in arguments between Blood lords, but you've put us there. And done it without telling me the truth of who you are.'
'Not intentionally,' Orisian said as calmly as he could. 'Let us be on our way, and the trouble will pass you by.'
'You think so?' scoffed Tomas. 'I think maybe not.'
'Don't imagine you're more important than you are, Tomas,' muttered Yvane. The First Watchman shot her such a look of feral contempt it startled even the na'kyrim. Orisian groaned inwardly, sensing any chance of a peaceful outcome to this slipping away.
'Don't test me,' Tomas snapped at Yvane. 'You'll all come to the Tower, and we'll see then what's to be done for the best.'
'No,' said Orisian heavily. 'We can't do that.'
He saw Ame's lip begin to twitch into a snarl. He saw Tomas' eyes narrow.
There was a clattering, urgent sound then, from somewhere out in the storm on the town's landward edge. It sounded like pots being hammered to
gether, or a shield being beaten. It sounded like an alarm.
'Tomas! Tomas!' A faint and distant voice, almost lost in the downpour. 'They're here! Riders! White Owl!'
Orisian saw the shock that flashed across the First Watchman's face. For an instant he felt sorry for the man. He felt sorry for all of them, as choice and chance collapsed into this one pattern that might kill them all. There were other noises, caught up in the roar of the rainstorm: drums, cries from across the river.
'That's the Fox,' said Yvane. 'It's starting.'
Orisian stared at the na'kyrim for a moment.
'Then it is time for us to go,' he said.
He flicked a glance at Rothe, striving to ask a question with his eyes. He thought he saw the answer he was looking for. Orisian moved first, his shieldman a moment behind him. Tomas and all his men were staring at Yvane, their aggression momentarily overlaid by confusion and alarm. They were slow.
Orisian hit Tomas around the waist, inside the First Watchman's sword arc before he even realised what was happening. They smacked down together into the mud. Orisian heard the sound of Rothe reaching Ame in almost the same instant, but it barely registered. His whole world had narrowed into a maelstrom of mud and water and the flailing limbs he wrestled with. A detached part of his mind said he was surely going to die here, yet his body had a furious, frenzied hunger for life and he punched and clawed at Tomas like a wild animal.
The First Watchman threatened to lever himself up again, but his hand shot from beneath him. Orisian threw his weight across Tomas' sword arm, pinning it, and raked at his throat with hooked fingers. There was a terrible blow to Orisian's flank, a club landing squarely on his old knife wound. The pain was blinding, but even as he was bludgeoned sideways his fingers clenched reflexively on the First Watchman's throat and he heard a strangulated cry.
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