The Plains of Kallanash

by Pauline M. Ross

  “Well, then, move out onto the plains,” she said. “There’s room for everybody.”

  “Out there, away from the Karningplain, there are tribes already claiming the land. They leave us alone because they prefer to keep away from the Karnings, and we’re mostly underground and out of their sight and protected by walls, but if we move into their territory it would get messy very quickly. As for settling, how is that going to work without the possibility of children? ”

  “But why fight? Why not simply ignore them, let them build their Karnings, live your own life?”

  He was silent for such a long time that Mia thought he would not answer at all. He sat, immobile, staring into the fire. But then he sighed.

  “When we fight them,” he said slowly, “they give us all the things we need that we can’t make for ourselves. Metal things, wood for building, and bricks and glass. Clothes, furniture, medicine. Some food, not much though. Wine, sometimes. And horses. We couldn’t survive out here without horses.”

  “I imagined you captured them,” she said, bewildered. “I assumed you had taken all those things by force.”

  “Well, some we do take during battle, it’s true, but not enough. There is nowhere we can go, Cassia, nowhere safe enough to allow us to build a life. If we stop fighting here, we’ll be overrun in weeks. If we try to go back, we die. If we move away, we have to fight the tribes instead. And what is the point in trying to carve out a life when there’s no future to it, no children?”

  “So they provide you with the weapons you need to fight them? They want you to fight them! Why? That’s no different from the skirmishes, it’s just a game!”

  “Except that the blades are sharp and we fight to the death. Yes, it’s just a game, Cassia, but it’s a game we have to play.”

  “Mia,” she said, having nothing else to say. “My name is Mia.”

  There was a glimmer in his eye, which in another man might have been amusement, but he said solemnly, “Your name is Cassia. And mine is Dethin.”

  28: Gathering (Hurst)

  Hurst jogged across the grassland towards the rider. He didn’t turn to see whether the others were following him; he knew they would be.

  After weeks in the steady coolness of the tunnel, the sun felt hot on his face, and there was no small pleasure in that. They were free at last! Maybe not for long, but he would take whatever was thrown at him now. Anything was better than being shut up below ground wondering how long the food would last.

  The rider looked slightly odd to him. At first glance, he would have said he was a Skirmisher, despite the beard, for he wore recognisable bits of Skirmisher uniform, but there were several pieces missing too, so he looked only half dressed. His helm was dangling from his saddle and although he wore a sword on his back, and perhaps knives on his belt, Hurst could see no other sign of weaponry.

  “Not to me, you fucking idiot! Follow them – see? Use your eyes! And get a move on.”

  Hurst stopped and looked around. In the direction the rider was waving, he could just see heads above the grass. He waved an acknowledgement and set off again, just as the other three came up alongside. He could hear one of them – Trimon, most likely – sighing heavily behind him.

  “And follow the track!” yelled the rider. “Don’t trample the grass!”

  Before long they caught up with a long thin trail of men walking at a slow amble through the tall grass. They were puffing and wheezing and sweating copiously, too tired even to talk, it seemed. Hurst and the others fell in at the end of the line, and slowed their pace. A few more men arrived behind them, and the rider, after circling around for a bit, came up and started urging them to a greater speed, to little effect.

  Before long flags could be seen in the distance, and then a long reddish wall appeared above the waving grass stems, with many men patrolling on guard duty, and after about a mile or so a gate loomed above them. They passed through the gate into a bustling compound, a sea of men, horses, wagons, all moving purposefully here and there. The arrivals were herded straight to the foot of a large irregular tower, in through a high entrance, its wooden doors standing wide open, and down broad stone steps. They went down several levels, and then, to their astonishment, they realised they were back in the tunnel, although clearly further down it. Trimon snorted, struggling not to laugh.

  “So much for our cunning escape plan,” he whispered.

  They were shown into a small cave, similar to a camp cave in size, and then through an opening into a much bigger cavern, with rough irregular walls and roof.

  “The comfortable quarters are taken already, so you slow-snakes get what’s left,” called a voice. “Find a spot, lads, and settle down. Anywhere you like, but don’t spread out too much, there are plenty more to squeeze in. Food in an hour. Carsi over there. No gambling or fighting or boozing, usual stuff. And don’t wander about. You’ll get a chance to exercise tomorrow. Anyone from Eighth here, cuz your Commander’s hopping mad, you should have been here three days ago. No? All right. Have a nice day.”

  Hurst looked around with a practised eye. “Let’s find somewhere against that far wall,” he said.

  “Why over there?” Trimon asked.

  “Away from the entrance, away from the – what did they call it? Water rooms, I’d guess. And a wall to your back, so you can sit up comfortably.”

  “Carsi,” Gantor laughed. “Haven’t heard that word for a few years. Shift along, you lot,” he said sternly to a group who were already spreading cloaks on the dusty floor. “Plenty of room for us too.” They looked up at him, a fully armed warrior, both tall and broad, with years of authority in his voice, and immediately scooped up their belongings and scuttled away to the far side of the room.

  “Hmm,” Trimon said. “Not much bravery in evidence so far.”

  “Come on, Gantor scares me, too, when he gets that tone in his voice,” said Hurst. “Besides, we’ve been travelling for – what, six weeks? We must stink to the skies. Who’d want to sit next to us?” He flopped down onto the ground. “Ouch! Not the most comfortable spot ever. I miss the camp cave already.”

  “We’d better keep our inner gloves on,” Gantor said in a low voice. “Don’t want anyone wondering about the tattoos. And everyone keep your heads down. Don’t attract any attention.”

  For several hours, the cavern was home to only a few dozen men, most of them so exhausted they simply lay down to sleep. There was a hot meal at noon, a solid meaty stew with dreadful bread as hard as wood, brought through on wheeled trolleys, and in the evening some unidentifiable stringy roasted meat, more stew and bread, and nothing but water to drink. From time to time someone would come through calling out: ‘Anyone from Seventh?’ or ‘Where are the lazy sods from South East Ninth?’. A few hands would go up, there would be some light-hearted name-calling, and then they would be left alone again.

  Hurst and his Companions watched it all, but talked as little as possible to anyone else. It was easy enough to be overlooked, just four more soldiers waiting to march to battle. There was nothing to do but sit and wait, and sleep if they could. This was difficult, for the torches burned day and night, and all four of them found the light disturbing. There was more disruption as the night wore on, for groups of men arrived in a steady trickle, unloading packs and weapons and lying down on the floor to sleep.

  “They travel at night, then,” Gantor whispered.

  “So it appears,” Hurst responded. “What do you make of them?”

  “Hard to tell until we can see them waving a sword around. But I can see why they assumed we belong here. They wear Skirmisher gear, like us. A little eccentrically, but still. They have beards, we have beards.”

  “They don’t look to me like fighters, though, most of them,” Hurst said. “One or two, maybe. But the accents – they sound just like Lowers. I find that odd. I mean, I knew they spoke Kashinorian, I’ve heard them in battle, but if I shut my eyes we could be in any alehouse in the Karningplain.”

  The next
morning brought thick gruel and the inevitable bread. Then an opportunity – fifty men were allowed to go up above to exercise. Hurst and Gantor left their weapons with Walst and Trimon and trooped back up the stairs. They were shown to a section of the compound roughly fenced off by parked wagons.

  “Right, you can walk or run round for one hour,” they were told. “And all go the same way.”

  The sky was overcast, but it was still warm. Most of the men were content simply to amble along chatting to their friends. They seemed to be in quite big groups of eight to ten, and since they all kept together it was almost impossible for anyone to run. Hurst and Gantor were quite content to amble too, looking surreptitiously around them and discussing what they saw in low voices. Apart from the peculiar tower, which seemed to be composed of several towers of different heights joined together, there was a large low building, numerous workshops, stables and stores, and a number of sandy coloured tents arranged in neat rows. In other parts of the compound they could hear the sounds of swords or staves clashing.

  “That sounds like more fun,” Gantor murmured.

  Along the wall, numerous guards patrolled back and forth.

  “Are they there to keep us in or the enemy out?” Hurst said, amused.

  “That’s a hard question to answer,” Gantor said seriously. “It depends who you think is the enemy. You do realise that unless we find a way out of this fairly quickly, we’ll be going into battle against our own people?”

  “They’re all our own people,” Hurst said quietly. “Aren’t they?”

  They were left outside for more than an hour, and were only called back inside when another group came out to take their place. In the confusion as the two groups tried to pass, Hurst said, “Let’s have a look at the swordwork, shall we?”

  They ducked behind a wagon and followed the sounds of fighting until they came to another open area, this time defined on two sides by tents, and on one side by stacks of barrels and boxes. The fourth side of the square was the compound wall. There were several bouts underway, with a couple of harassed instructors moving from one pair to another. They hadn’t been there long when a skinny man of around thirty came and stood next to Hurst. He was unusual in lacking a beard, and he wore a broad sash from shoulder to hip which might once have been yellow.

  “They’re not very good, are they?” he said conversationally, waving vaguely at the nearest pair. Then he added, “They’re from South East, of course,” as if that explained it.

  Hurst made some non-committal noise, although he wondered how he knew their origins, since none of the ordinary soldiers wore any identifying markers that he could see. It was true, though, they weren’t very good at all, just two young men with more enthusiasm than style.

  “You look as if you know how to handle a sword,” the skinny man said. “Want to show them how to do it?”

  “Sure,” said Hurst, ignoring Gantor’s hissed warnings.

  “You there,” shouted the skinny man, going across to one of the two, “hand your sword over.” The man dropped it instantly and backed away.

  Hurst picked it up, felt its weight and tested the blade for sharpness.

  “It’s just a training sword, it won’t do any damage,” the skinny man said, moving back to Gantor’s side.

  “Right, come at me then.” Hurst stood casually with the sword dangling from one hand.

  The remaining swordsman stared at him. “What, just attack you?”

  “Yes. Imagine I’m the enemy, and you want to kill me. Have a go.”

  For a moment the swordsman stood there, nonplussed, then all of a sudden he surged forward, sword raised high in both hands. Hurst didn’t move until he was almost on him, then calmly flicked his sword upwards, tossed his opponent’s sword into the dirt and deftly turned sideways, so that the young man crashed past him, tripped and ended up on his nose. Hurst reached a hand down, and pulled him up.

  “Two things,” he said. “Firstly, too obvious a move – I could see it coming from the instant the thought entered your head. Secondly, in a real battle, you’d be dead now. No one’s going to bother disarming you, they’ll just skewer you through your exposed chest. Now, let’s start with the basics – if you hold your sword like this…”

  He could hear Gantor’s heavy sigh even above the clash of swords all around. He didn’t care. There were men here – not much more than boys, some of them – who would die in a few days unless they picked up a few skills very quickly. He couldn’t stand by and not help out.

  After a while, the skinny man called him back.

  “Your friend here is not very communicative,” he said, jabbing a finger in Gantor’s direction, “so I’m hoping you’ll be more forthcoming. I don’t remember you from the last battle, and I’m sure I would have done, so where have you been hiding yourselves?”

  “We’ve only just arrived,” Hurst said, ignoring Gantor, who was gesturing wildly at him from behind the skinny man’s back.

  “You’re only just out of the tunnel?” he said in astonishment.

  “Er – yes, that’s right.” Did everyone arrive through the tunnel, then? That was interesting.

  “This tunnel? What, both of you?”

  “Four of us. Two more down below.”

  “Four?” His mouth dropped open. “And all trained? Fuck me! I’m surprised Bulraney didn’t mention that.”

  “Well, there’s a lot going on just now, isn’t there?”

  “Even so… Fuck it, what did you people do that they sent four of you?”

  Hurst scrabbled wildly for an answer to that. “Rather not talk about it.”

  “Oh, of course, none of my business, didn’t mean to pry, you know. Well, belatedly – welcome to Third Section. I’m Ainsley, Second Sword Captain. Look – I’d like you in my group, but it’s awkward just now. We’ll sort something out afterwards, all right?”

  “Fine,” said Hurst. “No rush.”

  “What the fuck are you thinking?” Gantor hissed as soon as they had escaped Captain Ainsley. “You’re crazy, you know that? Is it so difficult to keep quiet and not draw any attention?”

  “So what are they going to do to us?” Hurst said. “Even if they find out exactly who we are, what are they going to do? And how are we going to find Mia unless we settle in and make ourselves part of all this? And it’s interesting, isn’t it? What do you suppose he meant, ‘what did you do’? You think everybody had to do something to end up here? And who do you think Bulraney is?”

  But Gantor was too cross with him to answer.

  ~~~

  For several days the others forced Hurst to stay in the cavern out of sight. They took it in turns to go aloft in pairs, mingling with others, staying unobtrusive. Each night more men poured in and the cavern filled to capacity, the carsi overflowed and the smell of hundreds of unwashed men confined in a small area was only partially alleviated by the vast clouds of smoke pouring down the tunnels from the kitchens.

  But then Ainsley found them. He and two other men were seen walking slowly through the cavern, stepping over legs and swords, squeezing round groups playing toss-stones in intense huddles, and carefully examining every man there. Gantor saw them coming and the four quickly curled up in their cloaks pretending to sleep, but Ainsley spotted them anyway.

  “Here you are!” he said cheerfully, kicking Hurst’s exposed leg. “Been looking all over for you lot, and here you are sleeping in the middle of the afternoon!”

  “Lucky you recognised us then,” Hurst said, grinning.

  “Well, you’re the only people here with decent boots. Come on, bring your gear, let’s get you out of this cesspit. Oh, and Bulraney wants to see you.”

  “Who is Bulraney, exactly?” Hurst said innocently, strapping his sword on his back.

  “You really haven’t been processed properly, have you? He’s the Commander here.”

  Ainsley led them up stairs, along corridors and then up many more stairs, up and up, until eventually they came out in the highe
st room in the highest tower.

  “I found them, Commander! Here they are!”

  Bulraney was a big, ugly brute, Hurst thought, and not a man of reason or common sense, that much was obvious. Hurst knew instinctively that he had to be careful with this one.

  “What happened to your guide?” were his first words.

  “I couldn’t say,” Hurst said noncommittally.

  “Usually they ring the bell.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. We’ve not done this before, we don’t know what the usual procedure is. We just got swept up in the crowds.” And that part was true enough, he thought.

  “Ainsley says you’re proper Skirmishers. That true?”

  “It is.”

  “They let you keep all your gear? Never seen that before. What’s so special about you, then?”

  Hurst just shrugged.

  “Let’s have a look, then.”

  Hurst hesitated, seeing for the first time where this was going. He felt, rather than saw, Gantor inch his hand fractionally nearer the largest knife in his belt. There were three other men in the room alongside Bulraney, and behind him were Ainsley and his two men. That was seven against the four of them, which was just about feasible, but it would be messy and the room was cluttered with chairs, a couple of tables and some cupboards. No room to swing a sword or prime a bow.

  “Your sword, Skirmisher,” Bulraney said, more sharply.

  Hurst drew the sword from the scabbard on his back and offered the hilt to Bulraney. It looked just like a regular Skirmisher sword, the only distinction being the three jewels on the hilt to symbolise his Karning. He hoped Bulraney wouldn’t appreciate the significance of that. Gantor rested his hand on his knife.

  “Well, this is very nice,” Bulraney said. “Very good condition. Nice leather grip here. Better than the worn old rubbish we usually get. And it’s pretty. I’ll have this.”