The Flint Lord

by Richard Herley

  The search had led Gehan and his men to the western part of the hill; the road to Apuldram and the south-west, its banks heaped with frozen slush, ran across the shoulder of land a little way above them.

  “Look, my lord!” the unit leader said, before he had had time to act on Gehan’s order. He pointed up towards the fort. Two units of Vuchten were descending. “Shall we wait for them, my lord?”

  “Yes. We’ll surround the gorse and close in.”

  Gehan watched the approaching Vuchten with satisfaction, his anger abating. Across the hillside, the exercise to catch the slaves and savages, which he himself had commanded, had been expertly and cleanly brought to its conclusion. Doubtless one or two slaves had managed to take refuge unseen; doubtless, in the zeal of the chase, one or two useful creatures had been inadvertently killed. On the whole, however, the invasion of Valdoe had been successfully dealt with, the rebellion quashed, the slaves restored to their proper quarters; and now the fort was again firmly in good hands.

  Gehan gave a subtle smile. It seemed that the savages’ force had consisted of the pick of the tribes from several, if not all, of the winter camps. The loss of these men would weaken for ever the tribes of the whole country, and not just those in the south. There was every chance that here in Brennis, as in the homelands, the savages could be permanently stamped out.

  Tomorrow, he decided, he would rally his men and march north as planned. Undefended, its warriors’ bodies here on the hill, the waterfall camp could be completely annihilated. From there, if the weather and supplies allowed, the army would continue to the eastern camp and destroy that, and perhaps the western and northern camps also.

  He reflected that, in some ways, the turn of events had proved more satisfactory than the original plan. Although the fort had been damaged and four whole units had been ambushed on the Bow Hill road, other casualties among the soldiers had been no worse than might have been anticipated in a straightforward campaign. Among the Vuchten, particularly, losses had been slight, which would reduce the burden of wound-fees and death-sums payable to the Home Lord.

  From the military viewpoint, Gehan had turned the invasion to his advantage. The savages, the object of his campaign, could now be wholly exterminated; the work of forest clearance and expansion could begin unimpeded in the spring, then proceed without check until the whole island was under cultivation and his control.

  These thoughts had occupied only a moment. His mind darkened as he realized that not once had they dwelt on Ika. Compared with her loss this reckoning of wound-fees was shameful and petty; yet that was the way he had been trained. Since boyhood he had been forced into the rigid military ideal, forced to dissociate himself from weakness, from his feelings, forced to prepare for the day when he became the Flint Lord.

  Now his vision had suddenly cleared: he saw everything as it was. No longer would he be a slave of Valdoe. He would use Valdoe, as it deserved to be used, as an adjunct to himself. His duties would now be self-determined; no more would he chase phantoms conjured up by the memories of his father and Gehan First. Because it suited him, he would continue as Lord of Valdoe and, if Altheme gave him a son, Valdoe would be bequeathed to Brennis Gehan Sixth.

  She was in the gorse with the savages. He would get her safely out, with the help of the Vuchten units. They were now only a hundred yards away, approaching at battle-pace.

  Gehan stood his ground, waiting to speak to their commander.

  * * *

  Tagart had known from the first that the Flint Lord would not accept the terms he had set. He had wanted Rian’s message only to delay the search and to stop the soldiers from using fire, and to give himself more time to reach the edge of the thicket undetected.

  His face was bleeding, scratched again and again by the spines. In his flight from the fort he had left his mittens behind, and his hands too were bleeding, making the axe-handle sticky.

  Close by, in the sound of the blizzard, he could hear voices. Each prick of the gorse, each moment spent negotiating a branch that had blocked his passage through the thicket, had spread fear into his body, and now, inch by inch, he had to force himself to crawl forward.

  He moved aside another branch and saw that he had come to the last bush, exactly opposite the Flint Lord. For a few seconds Tagart watched him through the dark network of the gorse. He was not five strides away; and the way was open. The men in black armour, his bodyguards, were behind him, and Tagart was close enough to see their eyes and hear one of them hawk before spitting sideways into the snow.

  If Tagart moved now, if he burst through the last branches and ran, axe high, he would be able to fell him: with one blow he could kill the Flint Lord before his bodyguards had had time to react. The Flint Lord’s back was turned: he was looking up towards the fort.

  Tagart edged forward to see what had attracted his attention. It cost him his chance; he had delayed and let the moment slip, for as he saw the Vuchten coming, the bodyguards moved stiffly into formation, a three-sided box surrounding their master and open at the front, and the back rank was between the Flint Lord and Tagart.

  He watched the Vuchten drawing near. Again he saw the grotesque and sinister forms of their masks – their visors had been lowered and they were coming at speed, spears held ready. From the Flint Lord’s men came a shout of recognition and welcome, and for that instant Tagart shared their belief that the Vuchten had come to help in the search for Lady Brennis.

  But before Tagart’s dread could take shape, his belief, like theirs, was twisting aside. The charcoal-grey breastplates and vambraces, the fur capes and leggings, the snow-caked combat boots kicking powder in the mechanical unison of their run: these were a preordained and unified force, like the battering-ram, like an avalanche that could not be stopped by mere words and a shout of appeasing welcome. Their spears were not being lowered. They were coming on, ten yards from the Brennis soldiers, five, and from the expressionless beast-faces came a chant, a blood-chilling double chant of Ge-han Ge-han Ge-han, and then the Vuchten were colliding with the brown-armoured men in a confusion of spears and screams.

  Grey and brown armour thudded together; spears were locked and raised to the sky, falling, drooping, as brute strength overpowered brute strength or from behind came an enemy’s crippling thrust. Axes were being brought into use, and stone hammers with flailing heads on loose thongs. Tagart saw a man’s helmet struck and stoved, his skull smashed. He saw a grey soldier run through, the flint spearhead puncturing his cape and backplate with a creaking report and bulging the leather at his breast before the point broke through.

  Where the browns were alone they were falling one after another to the greys, the Vuchten, who in numbers alone overwhelmed them; but where they were mingled with the blacks, the Flint Lord’s bodyguards, wielding black-bladed axes and black spears, the fighting was so ferocious that even the Vuchten were intimidated, and grey after grey was going down.

  Vainly Tagart searched among them for a glimpse of the man they were fighting over, but it seemed he had disappeared, swallowed up by the blizzard and the battle, the shouts and screams of pain and the clashing of wood and stone and horn.

  Tagart looked uphill and to the right. The Flint Lord, in his grey cape, holding a spear, had passed between the fighting and the gorse and was fleeing, staggering and struggling through the snow, putting yards behind him, making for the Apuldram road.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Tagart had left the thicket and was running too, past the fighting men and to the open hill.

  He felt the wind stinging his face. On his right was the darkness of the gorse; on his left the whiteness rising steeply to the fort. The battle was behind him. He fixed his eyes on the single figure ahead and with new resolve forced himself upwards through the fresh furrow of the Flint Lord’s tracks.

  The snow here was deep and crusted and dragged at the legs, hampering progress, giving Tagart the advantage. He quickly began to gain, and as he gained he felt the shape of something evil insi
de him and the promise that it could be set free. His fear was forgotten. He let his axe swing wildly in compensation as he ran, keeping his balance, his boots finding the very pockets of snow and shade that had just been trodden by his prey: this had become for Tagart a chase, the most important of his life, an ecstatic hunt to catch and in a frenzy of elation to find release from the monster he had vowed to destroy.

  The road was still a hundred yards away. The Flint Lord was labouring towards it as if towards an unattainable summit, every fourth or fifth step using the spear as a staff. In his movements he appeared to be uncoordinated, fleeing from the incomprehensible forces that had been unleashed below. He was veering away from the stench of betrayal that hung over the fort; he was toiling towards the road that Tagart knew would lead him to his ships. His army and power had been stripped from him, and now just his own flesh and sinews and a hundred yards of Valdoe Hill lay between him and the way to safety.

  He paused to glance back at the battle and noticed Tagart for the first time, ten yards from him, following his tracks. He turned and half-heartedly made as if to climb again, seemed to change his mind and turned back, spear in hand, to face his pursuer.

  Tagart sensed weakness. He was aware of the spear, but did not slow his pace. He prepared to swing the axe for the first disarming blow, to knock the spear aside, and in a rush, in a single impression before the collision, he saw the Flint Lord in close detail, his blood-blotched ermine tunic, his cape in the wind, his blond beard and dishevelled hair, and his eyes: grey, remote, contemptuous, and in them alone Tagart saw that the weakness had been no more than a feint. And in a masterly, graceful movement, the exposition of years of weapons training and practice, the Flint Lord was floating backwards and to the right. The axe missed its target and sliced into the snow, pulling Tagart forward. He tripped and went down, his face ploughing into the crust of ice.

  The spear hit him with the impact of a heavy, inconceivably thick bludgeon, in the back, below his left shoulderblade. It cut deep into his body before the blade twisted and was wrenched away.

  His hands outstretched, his face rigid, Tagart rolled on his side. He looked and through his agony saw the Flint Lord receding. He wanted to crawl after him, but everything tilted and ahead there was nothing but a grey sky streaked with snow.

  The streaks made the sound of the blizzard, piercing and cold, its remorseless breath demanding Tagart’s warmth, and he felt his fingers beginning to be taken by the snow and turned to crystal as a gift for the Moon. The winter was filling his body, pouring in through the breach in his back.

  Then he raised himself above the snow and saw the cloud-clad figure of the Ice God, clambering over the wall of frozen slush at the roadside.

  Tagart cried out and let his face fall forward.

  7

  During the retaking of the Trundle, Hewzane had followed Irdon’s units to the north-east gates. There he had lingered, at a distance, until the fort had been cleared and made safe.

  From the roof of the residence he had watched Speich capturing Irdon’s men. He had also watched the progress of Gehan’s exercise on the far side of the hill. Gehan himself had been lost to view when Hewzane had judged that most of the slaves and savages had been killed or returned in bonds to the Trundle, enabling the signal – green pennons hung from the guard-towers – to be given for the Vuchten to attack the Brennis soldiers.

  Two Vuchten units, led by the commander who was second in authority to Speich, had been briefed to shadow Gehan and wait for the green pennons. The other Vuchten were to take their lead from these two units. Their orders were to capture rather than wound, and wound rather than kill, all the Brennis men, except Gehan’s bodyguard and those soldiers actually with him at the time of the attack. Gehan himself was to be unharmed: the Home Lord wanted him alive.

  With the attack under way and the outcome assured, Hewzane went down to the main enclosure to inspect the captives. They had been tied together and herded into four groups in the shelter of the north-western palisade. The snowstorm had worsened. Hewzane fastened the collar of his fur cape as he crossed the enclosure, Speich at his side.

  Even this part of the operation had been meticulously planned by Hewzane and, in accordance with his orders, Speich’s men were already processing the largest of the four groups, the slaves and miners. The healthy ones were being stripped, searched, and conducted to the slaves’ quarters, which had been temporarily repaired. The injured were being assessed by the unit leaders and their fate decided. If they could walk and lift a small boulder they were deemed healthy. The rest were dragged or carried to the north-east gates where, in full view of the other captives, they were being brutally dispatched by Vuchten with axes.

  The second group, those savages who had either been left behind in the fort or brought from the hill, would be carefully examined and any potential slaves picked out. The third group, the Trundle freemen who had survived the rebellion, would be closely questioned. Any who showed a trace of loyalty to the Brennis Gehans would be put into the mines.

  The last group, almost as numerous as the slaves, consisted of the vanquished and dejected Brennis soldiers. Those who could not be trusted would provide a useful source of further slaves; and the men of Hewzane’s old command, in the outer forts, would be brought to the Trundle by false signals and given the choice between service in the barracks or at the chalk face.

  Many slaves would be needed in the coming months. The Bow Hill workforce had been lost. The Trundle had suffered much damage. The mining schedule was behind: hundreds of essential timbers had been wasted and would have to be replaced. Tree-cutting in midwinter was a hazardous and time-consuming operation. Then, when the thaw came, there was a variety of other works to be put in hand, in accordance with the Home Lord’s wishes. Concurrently with the programme of forest clearance, new outer forts would be built, and these of course would need new roads, bridges, ferry stations. The villages could supply some of the labour, forced if need be, for the laxity with which the farmers had been treated hitherto was now a thing of the past.

  So too with the savages. In a way, their unexpected appearance had not been entirely unwelcome to Hewzane. They had spared him the unpleasantness of executing his fellow general, Larr, who would doubtless have remained loyal to Gehan. They had also, albeit unwittingly, speeded the outcome of the Home Lord’s design to win back the island country.

  The original plot, known only to Hewzane and then to Speich, had planned to use the attack on the savages’ camp to deplete the number of Brennis men. Then, on the return journey, well away from the Trundle and the outer forts, the Vuchten were to have turned on the other soldiers and killed them. In this way not only would Valdoe have been taken with the minimum disruption, but the lesser problem of the savages – rightly seen by Gehan as an obstacle to expansion – would have been solved at small cost, for Bohod Zein, who was not a party to the scheme, would be free to apply to Gehan as vigorously as he wished for the recovery of his debts. Bohod Zein’s interests on the mainland were anyway too large for him to risk the displeasure of the Home Lord. The mortgages would be revoked, and Valdoe given a clean start.

  The Home Lord’s plan had been upset by the arrival of the savages, but his larger design had remained unhindered. Valdoe had been seized, the resident army crushed, and now, after the loss of so many warriors, the savages’ camps were ideally vulnerable. In the next few days Hewzane would launch a heavy force against them. The vermin, as Gehan had so aptly termed them, would be stamped out in their winter nests and never allowed to infest the island country again.

  Of the sorry examples standing before him, in the second group of captives, Hewzane could see few who would make suitable slaves. Their leader, Shode, was not among them. Presumably he had been killed by Gehan’s men. But Shode’s woman, a girl of perhaps twenty, perhaps less, had been pointed out to the soldiers by some of the more garrulous and contritely toadying slaves.

  “Bring her forward,” Hewzane said.


  Cleaned up, she might be amusing, and for a moment Hewzane toyed with the idea of sending her to the residence. But then, remembering what she was, a faint shiver of repugnance passed through him.

  “Take her for your men,” he said to Speich. “And pick out any others you think might be suitable.”

  The Vuchten continued with their work. Just outside the gates, the pile of bodies was growing. They would be taken down the hill later and left for the ravens.

  The scene at the gates was having its intended effect on the other captives. Most of the freemen had renounced Brennis Gehan and were vowing undying devotion to the Home Lord who, through the heroic bravery of General Hewzane, had released them from lifelong and grinding tyranny. But some were silent, and among them Hewzane caught sight of Blean, one of the few Trundlemen to have survived. Blean’s eyes were not drawn to the gates: they were instead following Hewzane and Speich as they moved along the line. Their expression bespoke hatred of Hewzane and loyalty to the old order. Hewzane inwardly sighed. Although, as a man, he disliked Blean, his talents were undeniable and would have proved useful in the months to come.

  “That one,” Hewzane said, pointing him out, “is to join the mine slaves.” The thought of Blean toiling in the galleries tickled Hewzane’s sense of irony and he smiled thinly. The smile vanished: Blean’s technical knowledge would present a continuing risk of sabotage which could not be suffered to remain.

  “No,” Hewzane decided. “Kill him.”

  “Look there,” said Speich, inclining his head towards the gates, where a Vuchten unit leader, one of the men detailed to capture Gehan, was making his way into the enclosure. He was alone. His weapons, his helmet, even his cape had gone; there was blood on his face.