by Tad Williams
Samreas had made it very clear he was in favor of simply lopping off their heads and burying the bodies somewhere in the surrounding woods, so Curudan’s caution was keeping Aelin and the rest alive. Aelin had hated surrendering, but the baron’s force was three times as large, and if Aelin and his men were killed in this far-off spot the message they were carrying from Aelin’s uncle, Count Eolair, would never get to Earl Murdo and nobody would ever know what Aelin and the others had seen—the bizarre meeting between the Silver Stags and the White Foxes, mankind’s direst enemies.
So I thank you and praise you, lords of the world, he prayed. But I would not be shamed to take any additional assistance you might care to offer.
One of the guards banged on the doorway and bellowed for the prisoners to stand back while the food was brought in. Aelin signaled his men to make no trouble, ignoring the anger he saw on many of their faces. His squire Jarreth and several of the others had been Aelin’s companions since childhood, so although the days of confinement and pain of the shackles made them short-tempered almost to the point of rebellion, they still heeded their liege-lord’s commands and backed away from the door. Three guards came in. Two carried a steaming pot, though the smells that rose from it were less than appetizing. The other carried a bucket of water and bowls, which he handed out to the prisoners. Each received a bowl of water to drink, then when they had finished, they were allowed to fill the same bowls from the pot of thin stew.
Aelin sipped at his, wondering at a broth so thin he could not tell if it the original source had been rabbit, squirrel, or rat.
“I think I actually taste some meat in this,” said Jarreth. “Somebody count the men and see if someone’s missing.”
The guards only smirked and backed out. The door swung closed and the bar and lock loudly slammed back in place.
While the prisoners finished their meal, young Evan dragged his shackle and chain over and sat down beside Aelin. He was the youngest of the company, but had already proved himself no fool. As the youth lowered himself to sit against the wall and lifted his bowl to his lips, Aelin asked him, “Do you Aedonites not say a prayer before every meal?” He had only discovered that Evan was a follower of that religion the day they had all been captured.
“Yes, but we need not say it aloud.” The young man wiped his mouth with his fingers, then licked them clean. He fixed Aelin with a strange look. “Do you hate me?”
“What? Why?”
“Because I am a heretic. An Aedonite.”
Aelin shook his head. “You are also a Hernystirman. Our country has been surrounded by Aedonite believers since long before Tethtain’s day—although not so many live within our own lands. I do not pretend to understand the things you believe, but you have never given me anything but good service, Evan. And whether many gods command us or just one, men are still men. Some do good. Some do evil. What they call themselves and what they believe seldom seem to matter much.”
The youth smiled a little. “You are a very wide-minded man, Lord Aelin.”
Aelin smiled back, glad to entertain a pleasant memory. “Blame my uncle, Count Eolair—my great-uncle, to tell the truth of it—whose errand we were on before Curudan’s Stags waylaid us. Those are his words, more or less, though he puts a finer polish on them than a soldier like me can do. But I saw the truth of what he said early on and have never lost it.”
Evan looked carefully from side to side. The other prisoners were eating and arguing among themselves with the weary disinterest of confined men. Evan moved a little closer. “What then would you say if I told you that one of the Silver Stags is also an Aedonite?”
Aelin swallowed the last of the weak broth. “Are we talking about faith, or about something else?”
“It is Fintan, the youngest of the Stags. He is unhappy with what Curudan and the others are doing. He thinks that making a bargain with the White Foxes is no different than making a bargain with the Great Adversary.”
“The Great Adversary?”
“The Prince of the Deeps, the enemy of God.”
Aelin nodded, though he had never really understood what Aedonites believed. “So this Fintan is unhappy.”
“More than that, he thinks it is wrong that fellow Hernystiri who have committed no crime should be held prisoner—and that there is talk about simply killing us because we are inconvenient.”
“I am not happy with such talk either.” Aelin considered. “How do you know this?”
“He talks to me through the door when he is on duty.” Evan inclined his head toward the grill of iron bars. “But only when the other guard is far away. There are always two guards on duty outside.”
“And he simply began speaking to you? Telling you his treasonous thoughts, as his comrades would see it?”
Evan shook his head. “He saw me make the Sign of the Tree one day when we were fed and recognized me as another of the faith. We have a saying: ‘Any stranger who believes is my brother’.”
Beyond orders, beyond blood, Aelin thought. It felt dangerous to him as a noble, this idea of a secret fellowship between strangers that could overthrow the rule of order, but just now he could not afford to let such feelings rule him. He looked around the cell at his men, who after only a few days in prison already had the pale, distracted look of longtime captives. “Do you think there is a chance he would help us?”
Evan hesitated. “Yes. Yes, I think so. He is devout. I think you should speak to him.”
“Me? But I am not of your faith.”
“No, but he knows you by reputation—he has heard you are a good and truthful man, Sir Aelin, and I confirmed it. And you can promise him protection if he helps us. I am merely one of your soldiers. You are our liege lord.”
“Not much of a lord. Not much of a leader either, I fear, or we would not be in such straits.” But he knew what his great-uncle Eolair would do, so he knew what he must do as well. “Of course I will speak to him. Tell me when he is on duty and we will discover whether there is some way out of this mire.”
* * *
It took six days for Eolair and his bandit captors to cross the High Thrithings into the Meadow Thrithings, site of the Thanemoot. Eolair did not have a comfortable journey, since he spent much of it with his hands trussed, riding the back of Hotmer’s saddle, but other than the occasional sneer, shove, or harsh jest, his captors heeded their chief Agvalt’s orders and did not harm him. The bandits fed him as well as they fed themselves, if not so promptly, and while Hotmer was not a particularly witty companion, as long as Eolair did not press him on the subject of why he had left his family and New Gadrinsett to return to the wildlands, the Thrithings-man was willing enough to talk.
“I have heard of the Thanemoot, of course,” Eolair said as they crossed a grassy hilltop, marveling again at the broad sky and the unpeopled width of the plains spread before him, “but I thought only men of the clans would go. Half the men here in Agvalt’s company are not even from the Thrithings.”
Hotmer spat, courteous enough to aim it away so the wind would not blow it into the count’s face. “People come to Blood Lake from all over the grasslands—many kinds of folk. It is the greatest gathering of the year.” He shrugged. “They come to buy and sell, to find brides, to get news. There are riding and wrestling and other contests, and people make great names for themselves at those. Also, traders come from Kwanitupul and even Nabban.”
“But, and I mean no slight, you all—you men of Agvalt’s company—you are not traders or even clansmen, but outlaws.”
“We are a free company.” Hotmer sounded offended. Eolair could not help but wonder at a man who would carry a bound prisoner who had done him no ill, with no purpose more noble than ransom, yet balk at the name “outlaw.”
“As I said, I meant no slight.”
“The grasslands are not a place of roads and rules.” Hotmer took a piece of dried chewing skin f
rom his pocket and offered it to Eolair, who politely demurred. “Not like New Gadrinsett,” he said, jaws working at the stiff hide. “The clans move, the people move, sometimes men leave one clan for another. And sometimes they join no new clan, but a company like ours instead. We all must live somehow.”
“So you never have problems from the clansmen at these gatherings?”
Hotmer huffed a laugh that Eolair could feel through the man’s back. “Problems? Do you mean fights?” He laughed again and held up an arm, displaying the long, curving scar that ran from just below his index finger and under his bracelets to his elbow. “A Roebuck-man gave me that because he said I was trying to steal his woman. I gave him back worse before they pulled us apart.”
“And were you? Trying to steal his woman?”
Hotmer shrugged. “I said she could do better with a man like me. He didn’t like the truth.”
Eolair shook his head. “So there are fights.”
Hotmer smirked. “Of course, Hernystirman. Do the men in your cities who drink and argue never fight? Never kill each other over foolish disagreements?”
Eolair had no ready reply to that.
* * *
• • •
The grassy Meadow Thrithing, which had for the first part of their ride seemed as empty as the drifting sands of Nascadu, was now becoming more crowded. Eolair saw wagons and people on foot coming together from all directions. It seemed a formless scatter at first, but narrowed until most of them were following a few sets of well-worn tracks toward the place of the great gathering. Some of the larger clans seemed like whole cities on the move, wagons bumping along one behind the next like a string of colorful beads, in lines stretching as far as the eye could see. Many were piled high with the belongings of their owners, tied in improbable, swaying bundles taller than the wagons were long. The carts themselves were often painted in bright colors, or covered with carvings, banners, and ribbons. It was hard to watch the more ornate examples, awash in bright colors, piled high with possessions, often with at least one or two small children sitting on the top like successful mountaineers, and not feel the urge to smile at the sheer, colorful improbability of it.
It is like someone took all the wooden carvings hanging in the Taig and put them on wheels, Eolair thought.
But if the conveyances were often charming to behold, many of the riders who guarded them were less so. Eolair saw clansmen more frightening than any of Agvalt’s freebooters; big, scarred men with curved swords like mowing hooks, tattooed so thoroughly that faces and arms were almost black. More than a few had tasseled their saddles with what looked like human scalps, and some displayed even grislier trophies: one glowering giant wore a necklace made of shriveled human hands. Eolair did not stare for long before looking away. He was never surprised by what men did to each other, but that did not make him like it.
With little else to do on the back of Hotmer’s horse, except keep his balance, Eolair watched the parade of passing nomads, salted with the smaller, less ornate carts of the Kwanitupuli peddlers and the wagons of the Hyrka horse traders, which sometimes outdid in decoration even those the most powerful Thrithings thanes. But the count had spent most of his life as an agent of royalty and power, so even as he took in the spectacle he was making note of everything around him.
It was hard to estimate numbers, especially on the outskirts of the gathering. The main wagon tracks, now growing stickily deep in mud, were surrounded by a delta of individual wheel ruts as incoming grasslanders tried to avoid the mire. There were clearly hundreds upon hundreds of wagons, and a very rough headcount showed at least a woman and a few children inside or on top of most of them. Counting the wagons, and taking a high guess at as many as two mounted men for each, Eolair estimated nearly a thousand grasslanders just from the travelers he could see near him, without counting the encampments stretched more than halfway around the lake.
Five thousand riders, perhaps, at the Thanemoot, was his first guess—armed, hardy men, ready to fight. The clansmen’s love of fighting among themselves was the only thing that kept Nabban safe, he thought. And Erkynland, too, for that matter.
May Murhagh One-Arm continue to fill them with anger at each other, he prayed. May they cheat each other and steal each other’s women left and right. But keep them strong, too, else the Nabbanai will overrun us all someday.
“Where exactly are we going?” he asked.
They had almost reached the top of a hill, and Hotmer didn’t bother to answer him until they reached the crest, where he stretched out his hand. “Here,” he said with his usual economy of words. “Blood Lake.”
The ground fell away before them in a slope thronged with pines and other trees, forming a bowl of grass surrounding a glassy lake that was, if not the color of blood, at least red-tinged by what Eolair guessed was iron in the ground beneath it. The long, reddish lake looked like a lady’s hand mirror dropped and forgotten, and the scene reminded him of the Cuihmne Valley east of his home, which brought a sudden twinge of homesickness.
Will I ever see those places again?
The lake’s grassy banks, shaded in many places by stands of willow, birch, and other trees, were full of people and wagons, little more than spots of color and movement from this distance. As Eolair looked over the throngs camped on the shore and those farther back under the eaves of the woods that almost touched the lake in several places, he revised his estimate upwards.
As many as ten thousand men of fighting age, perhaps? That is more I think than all Erkynland could muster.
Like most men of the cities, Eolair was used to thinking of the Thrithings-men only when they committed some new outrage along the borders, usually the result of a small group of clansmen out for plunder or simply excitement. Only twice in recent memory had they provided any greater threat, during the first and second Thrithings Wars, and both times there had been enough other clans willing to side with the city-men to keep the fighting mostly confined to the grasslands. King John had bargained with Fikolmij, a powerful thane in the High Thrithings, which was how Prince Josua had met his wife—Vorzheva, the thane’s daughter. Years later another angry clan chief had started a rebellion on the western edge of the Meadow Thrithing and King Simon and Duke Osric and others had been forced to take an entire army against the rebels to keep the horsemen from burning and pillaging their way into southeastern Erkynland. As always, the grasslanders had been their own worst enemies, seeming almost to compete to see which clan could betray the others first. That time a thane named Rudur of the Black Bear Clan had been the winner. With Rudur’s help, a rebellion that could have been far more dangerous had been put down with an acceptable loss of life among the Erkynlanders. Acceptable to all but Simon and Miriamele, of course, who had bitterly regretted their dead; Simon in particular had become angrily determined to find better ways to deal with the Thrithings-men afterward.
For if they ever turn against us all together, the king had said, we may not be able to push them back. Eolair was inclined to agree with him.
But now, he thought, foolish Nabbanai nobles led by Drusis are rattling their swords in their scabbards, talking daily of “chastising the barbarians” while pushing their new farms and settlements deeper into Thrithings territory. Thank all the gods that Duke Saluceris has more sense than the rest of them. Especially if the Norns are rising again in the north. He thought for a moment—and only a moment—of what it would mean to be caught in a pincer between barbarian grasslanders and White Foxes, and shivered under the bright sun as though a fever had entered him.
* * *
• • •
By tradition, outlanders were allowed a place only at the thickly forested eastern end of the lake, where the shadows hung all morning below the hills and the land was marshy and damp. All the traders, as well as those visitors of less obvious purpose, like Agvalt’s bandits, collected under the trees at that end, ignoring each other by gene
ral agreement. The bandits and other clanless fighting men—many of whom lived by hiring themselves out to one clan or another during feuds, and the rest of the time preyed on travelers and those who lived on the fringe of the grasslands—made a festival of it, drinking and boasting late into the night, and bringing back such unclaimed women as they could find. The traders from the west and south were more discreet, pursuing their business as quietly as they could, intent only on earning what could be made during the Thanemoot and then escaping safely back to Kwanitupul, the Wran, or lower Erkynland with their lives and profits intact.
Because the land around the lake itself was so full of camps and the main road (little more than a wide trail) was so crowded with wagons and riders, it took a long time for Agvalt’s bandit troop to make its way to the shadowed eastern end. Because they were only a small company and not clansmen, Agvalt frequently had to lead his men off the road into the trees to allow larger bands coming from the opposite direction to pass. By the time they had traveled halfway around Blood Lake, the sky was beginning to darken.
Another large group approached, so Agvalt’s company stepped off into the woods. Fires burned in many of the camps and wood smoke filled the air, making it even harder to see. The smell of meat cooking made Eolair’s mouth water. He hoped he might get more to eat tonight than the thin bean porridge the bandits had been feeding him; his mind was on the rabbits several of the bandits had shot. He prayed he might get at least a bite or two—he was desperate for something substantial. The memory of the Sithi banquet, strange as it had been, seemed a summit of happiness he might never see again.