Fall of Thanes tgw-3

by Brian Ruckley

“The enemy kill each other. Like a snared beast, they tear at their own legs. Their own bodies. It will make our path easier.”

  “Easier,” Orisian echoed. He stooped down to the dead White Owl girl who lay at his feet. Half-dusted with snow, she was face down. Her arms lay neatly in at her sides, one leg bent, the other quite straight. She was small. No more than ten years old, he guessed. He picked up a little bow from where it had spilled out of the bedding roll she had been carrying. Like a toy, he thought. And remembered that he had seen the same thing in the hands of a Fox child, long ago by the banks of the River Dihrve.

  “Let’s keep moving,” he said. There was a foulness about this place. He wanted only to leave it far behind.

  As the two Kyrinin trotted down into the next broad vale in Anlane’s endless undulations, Orisian noticed one of Taim’s warriors staring after them. There was no warmth in the man’s fixed gaze. No sentiment at all, in fact, save mistrust. Suspicion. We’re all snared now, Orisian thought. Every one of us.

  Across the moors north of Dun Aygll, the host of Black Road spread. It splintered and crumbled, like a vast flock of birds that had ridden fierce winds but found them, in the end, too potent and been scattered by them. It consumed everything it encountered: farms and villages and the fragile remnants of the Haig army. And it consumed itself. Tarbains hunted stragglers of any ilk, slaughtered and stripped them. Parties of Battle Inkallim rode back and forth across the bare and sodden land, seeking to reassert control over this vast beast, only to find it ungovernable. As often as not, they encountered nothing but madness and frenzy and feral bloodlust. Where they could not impose order, they imposed death instead, for there was a kind of madness upon many of them as well.

  The masterless villages on the eastern shore of the Vaywater, where no Blood and no Thane held sway, turned on one another. The fishermen and goatherds and hunters and weavers laid down the tools of their crafts and took up knives and axes and spears instead. They fought over disputed fields and over stolen goats. They paid no heed to other concerns, and one settlement-Karlakan-was thus taken unawares when a wandering band of Heron Kyrinin, straying perversely far from their territories, descended upon it in the night. By dawn, blood was running down into the waters of the great lake and curling away in stained eddies.

  In Koldihrve, at the mouth of the Vale of Tears, the men of the town hunted na’kyrim after nightfall.

  The Heron and the Hawk, who had planted peace staffs along their boundaries only one season ago, disinterred all the grievances that had been so recently buried. The young men and the young women took up their spears once more. They raided, as they had done before, but this time they went not in their tens but in their scores, and wherever the spear a’ans went, they left not even the youngest of children or the frailest of elders alive.

  And in Anlane the White Owl Kyrinin made war upon themselves. A few who had doubted all along the intoxicating promises of the na’kyrim Aeglyss, and found themselves dismayed by the fierce passions that now seemed to rule their fellows, spoke out. And were slain. The last of them was cut apart on the hard ground before the lodge of the Voice herself. But the killing, and the dissent, once begun did not stop. Though many of the warriors were long gone, venturing far beyond the clan’s territory to assuage their lately rediscovered martial pride and hunger for the blood of their people’s myriad enemies, enough remained to fight over every trifle, and even the least warlike, the youngest, the oldest, the most infirm, found enough passion burning in them to lift a spear or set arrow to string.

  The dyke had been broken, and through the breach came flooding every resentment and division. Rumour and accusation spun all through Anlane like seeds upon the wind. Vo’ans began to break apart, families and warbands taking to paths that would normally remain untrodden until the summer, many neither knowing nor caring whether they were fleeing or pursuing, hunter or hunted. The wise chanted in their tents, questing after truth, but no answers came. Only fear and confusion. But still they chanted, and hoped for clarity, while outside and everywhere in the Thousand Tree-Clad Valleys the bloodshed continued.

  III

  The contours of the darkness within Ragnor oc Gyre’s fortress in Kan Dredar were subtle. Slight gradations laid a patchwork cloak of blacks and greys and shadow over the foundry and the bakery, the barracks and the stables, the low keep where the High Thane dwelled; and the Great Hall loomed over all with its huge steepled roof and its giant doors, around the edges of which light and noise and heat bled into the winter’s night. All else was quiet. Rats ran along the base of the storehouse wall, noses down. There was smoke coiling out from the armourer’s workshop, but the fires from which it sprang had long since been left to dwindle. The smiths were in the Hall with everyone else.

  Beyond the outer palisade, in the trees down by the river, an owl called. There were none to hear it, save the guards in the watchtowers and at the gates, and most of them were too busy bemoaning their drawing of such a cold duty while the rest of Ragnor’s household had its revels. None to hear it, save those guards, and one other.

  Shadow separated itself, a part of it coming free and slipping silently across the narrow stretch of ground between storehouse and Great Hall. Two rats, startled by this sudden intrusion into their nocturnal dominion, scampered for their tunnels in the hard earth.

  The assassin who came to rest crouching at the foot of the hall’s looming rear wall had ash thickly smeared over his face. Every garment he wore was black. His hands were sheathed in gloves thin enough to ensure their movement would not be hampered. He paused there, secure in lightless obscurity, and took a few steady breaths to regulate his heartbeat and clear his mind. Satisfied, he rose smoothly to his feet, still pressing himself against the stone wall. The whites of his eyes were the only imperfection in his sombre concealment. They darted this way and that now, like pale pebbles. And found nothing to concern him. No light in any overlooking window, no movement.

  Turning, he extended one arm up and took hold of the rough stonework. He was lean but nonetheless powerful. Fingers like steel bars raised him up the wall. His boots were light, little more than black-dyed slippers of soft calf-hide. It was easy to find places for both hands and feet on the surface. He climbed without haste, for haste was the enemy of both precision and silence. If anything betrayed him now, it would be sound rather than sight. There was not even enough moonlight for him to see the details of the wall before his own face. He went by touch and feel, and by memory. He had studied the route he must follow from down below over the last two days.

  The small crossbow on his back was tied tight to prevent any movement. The cords constrained him only very slightly, not enough to impede his ascent. That distant owl was calling again, and that pleased him. It gave the night a veneer of normalcy and calm, and would thus offer false comfort to those keeping watch. It allowed him to think that fate might favour his endeavour.

  Up to the very eaves he climbed, and into the utter darkness of their overhang. Fingers locked into crevices, he drew up his knees, bracing his feet between the rough-cut blocks of stone. Now he was entirely hidden. Even someone wandering unexpectedly along directly beneath him would struggle to descry his lofty presence, should their gaze drift improbably upwards.

  Another moment or two to moderate his breathing and his heart. Then exploratory fingers delicately extended along the very top of the wall, tracing the line where the stones met the protruding woodwork and beams of the huge roof. He could hear the voices of those within, dull and indistinct, a rumbling murmur punctuated by occasional laughter or shouts. He shut the distraction out. He dwelled only in this moment, thought only of his own body, his holds and what his reaching hand sought.

  Soon enough he found it: a gap where uneven stones and prised-apart wood combined to yield less than two hands’ span of space. Even through his gloves he could feel the heat of the air oozing out from that opening and he could smell the smoke and the scents of food and drink and bodies that the hall exhale
d through this tiny flaw in its fabric. Two crab-like cramped movements across the stone were enough to take him there, and now, with his eyes directly before it, he could see the soft orange firelight reflected on dark woodwork within. One hand hooked in there gave him enough security to loosen the crossbow’s bindings with the other. The weapon preceded him into the roofspace. He emptied his lungs to shrink his chest and followed it, forcing himself through this most narrow of entrances.

  Others had preceded the assassin up this wall, just a handful of times. One had climbed to open the way, easing apart wooden struts just enough to admit a lean and determined body. He did not know how long ago that had been, for it was not his place to know such things. One or two, after that, had entered the High Thane’s hall just as he now did, though they had brought only their ears and their eyes with them, seeking only information. He came with more fatal intent, and felt himself to be the first. The only one that mattered.

  The roof of the Great Hall rode a massive and intricate fretwork of beams and timbers, a supportive weave of wood and nails. Like a marten making its sinuous way through the branches of a forest canopy, the assassin edged towards an angular perch, where he would be concealed from all but the most acute of eyes but able to lock his own gaze upon Ragnor oc Gyre, who feasted below.

  The High Thane filled his wolfskin-clad throne. His lavish gestures and bellowing voice said he had already drunk more than his fill. As had most of the others who thronged the length of the great chamber. They sat on benches and rugs, crowded round the three huge fires blazing in their open hearths. They milled about-many unsteadily-brandishing cups and joints of meat. Some fought, and those around them paid no heed to their struggles, consumed by their own kinds of madness. One-an old, bearded man-was naked, and danced on the fringe of the flames, gabbling nonsensically, his body turning pink and raw as the heat raged at him. There was a dead man lying by one of the fires, his blood spread around his neck and shoulders. In one corner, close by Ragnor, a woman-one of his Shield-was hunched over the corpse of a hunting dog, pulling at it, flaying it.

  Shadows swept and cavorted around the walls, flung there by the light of those exuberant fires: not just the soft-edged blurs of the churning host, but the starker, sharper darknesses cast by the huge antler trophies that hung everywhere. The assassin found the frenzied scene repellent. He had been brought up to another kind of life, one that could never condone such mad indulgence. And that upbringing came now to its purpose and goal. All his discipline could not wholly suppress the eagerness blossoming in his breast. This moment was what he was for; it was the sum of all his years. Though the bestial passions he saw expressed below him were not something he could share, there was passion of a sort within him. A yearning to be the deliverer of death, a longing-such as he had never felt before-to be the weapon by which fate delivered its judgement.

  He rocked fractionally, testing the stability of his position. It was good enough. Still, he kept his movements slow and contained as he drew back the string of the crossbow. The smoke that pooled amidst the rafters of the hall was stinging his throat and eyes. His body wanted to sniff or cough, but he mastered the animal urges.

  Below, Ragnor was shouting something at his Master of the Hall, who stood beside the throne, an island of morose solemnity amidst the sea of merriment. The old man did not appear to reply, but the High Thane laughed. The assassin eased one of his two bolts from the tiny flat quiver that he wore inside his black shirt, and nestled it into place on the bow. The weapon was not powerful, but Ragnor seldom wore chain at times such as this, so it need only punch the quarrel through cloth and hide and skin. It was more than capable of that. And once the bolt found its place in the High Thane’s flesh, it too was capable of doing what was needful. It was finely, savagely barbed, and would fight all attempts to free it from a wound. And it would foul that wound too, for a crust of excrement and soil and spittle was dried upon its point. Whether quickly or slowly, Ragnor oc Gyre would die.

  The assassin had to lean a little to one side to gain the clear straight line to the High Thane that he desired. He made the adjustment cautiously, his hips and thighs and back tensing to keep him from overbalancing. His muscles were trained for such exertion, and he barely noticed the effort required. Slowly, he dipped his head to sight along the waiting bolt. Smoke rasped at his eyes and he winced. His vision blurred for a moment and he had to clench his eyes shut, squeezing tears out. The smoke was worse than he had expected. He blinked again and again, still holding his head quite still and steady down over the crossbow’s butt. His sight cleared.

  He breathed out, whispering as he did so, “My feet are on the road. I go without fear.”

  And the string cracked forward, and the barbed bolt flashed free from its shallow gutter.

  And Ragnor oc Gyre leaned across towards his Master of the Hall, crying some jovial abuse at him.

  And the crossbow bolt thumped into the throne, pinning the collar of Ragnor’s jerkin to the wolfskin and wood.

  The assassin was already moving, turning back towards the hidden gap by which he had entered. He heard the howl of outrage, the roars of confusion and alarm, but did not look. He would not do so until he was poised on the brink of escape. If, in that moment, there seemed the time and opportunity for the second bolt, he would try again. If not, he would vanish out into the night and come again, elsewhere, tomorrow or the next day or the next, until the Gyre Blood was relieved of its Thane.

  He reached through the smoke and the heat and the tears that filmed and dulled his eyes for a slanting beam to haul himself round. And almost missed the hold, his fingers slipping for a moment over flat wood. He swayed. His other arm came up to balance him, and the end of the crossbow it carried jarred against another timber. Jarred free. The crossbow fell, plunging down into the world of light and noise and anger below.

  He could see the narrow black void that marked his escape route, and darted towards it. He could smell the cold, fresh night air beyond, could imagine the freedom of the open black sky above his head. And crossbow bolts were flying up, like a flurry of answers to the challenge he had dispatched downwards. They smacked splinters from the wooden lattice through which he moved. They would not find him, he was sure. Already he was consumed by the sour sense of failure, but still he did not doubt he would live to serve the creed another day.

  Until one bolt out of the flock that swarmed up towards him impaled his trailing hand, nailing it to a beam. Through the very centre of the back of his hand it went, and buried itself deep in the wood. He gasped, not in pain but in surprise. And in frustration, for he needed that hand as he swung forward. He stared through bleary eyes at the very place he would be reaching for with it. He could see, indistinctly, the saw marks in the flat face of the timber. He blinked, and overbalanced, and fell.

  His arm wrenched at his shoulder joint as his entire weight was abruptly hung from that single impaled hand. It held only for an instant, then the bolt tore out from his flesh, ripping itself free between two fingers. He tipped backwards as he fell, gazing up into the darkness of the roof. An outstretched antler of one the trophies on the wall stabbed into his thigh, and gouged down the back of his leg to his knee, tumbling him in the air. He plummeted head down, a host of snarling faces rushing up to greet him from below.

  “What were you thinking?”

  Theor had his hands half-raised, poised as if arrested in the midst of some violent movement. He could not tear his gaze away from them. His eyes took in the aged, slack hide that his skin had become, the terrible impotence of these limbs that once, surely, must have felt capable and powerful. The fury that was in him was in them too, seething and burning in the palms and the fingers. And it was such a pathetic thing, that fury. It was empty, powerless to change anything. Powerless even, he felt, to express itself honestly.

  “What were you thinking?” he cried again at Avenn.

  The First of the Hunt glared at him. He suddenly imagined himself seizing her by the throat,
crushing and crushing the contemptuous, arrogant life out of her with these same trembling hands. He imagined her slumping to her knees, gasping for breath that would not come.

  Slowly he lowered his hands. It would not happen like that, of course. He was a feeble old man, a boat drifting broken-ruddered amidst rocks and storms. She was of the Hunt. Fierce, strong. And certain of her purpose. Her faith.

  “I did what the times, the circumstances, the creed, seemed to called for,” Avenn said.

  Not even a semblance of deference in her any more. She would not deign to make the most passing pretence at submission to the Lore’s authority. Theor could only shake his head.

  “He was feasting,” Avenn snarled. “Feasting? In times such as these? Celebrating what? The fact that we’ve made ourselves his subjects. The fact that he can steal a hundred orphans from the Battle merely by demanding it. The fact that he can kill Hunt Inkallim without fear of redress, without us raising a hand or a blade to prevent him. The fact that we lack the will to pursue this grand, this glorious enterprise that has been begun through to its utmost conclusion. The fact that we falter.”

  Oh, the fire that burned in her was bright. Theor could remember when such sacred fervour raised him up just as it now did Avenn. It had not been so very long ago, yet it felt an age. It felt as if those righteous sentiments and certainties had dwelt in the heart of an entirely different person. Someone else. Someone who had not been prey to the doubts and the sickening fears that now ate away at him.

  “This sudden caution that cripples you is unwarranted, First,” snarled Avenn. She was striding up and down on the reed matting that covered the floor. This was a chamber meant for peaceful contemplation. Theor had brought her here for the sake of privacy and discretion.

  “But you goad the High Thane into striking out against us,” he muttered, that rage that had briefly so animated him leaching away. It was unsustainable. “Ragnor’s temper already runs hot as a fever. He’s been walking upon the brink of unreason for days. Now…”