“You must tell me all you’ve done since you left us, Ulran.”
But he didn’t hear, for his mind was deep in the past.
*
With great stealth at the coming of night, innman Conofrack Jasebours and his wife Elar, together with their third child Loring in a bundle of blankets, sneaked out of the siege-ridden city of Goldalese.
Loring remembered little, though the twinkle of countless camp-fires surrounding the city stayed imprinted on his mind. The city was due to fall to the forces of Lornwater and his father believed life under the conquerors was so unbearable that they must flee.
This decision created a rift in their family, for Loring’s brother Aska and sister Usa – both over twenty years old – were determined to stay.
But Jasebours was as adamant: so they risked all to head to the ranmeron, ironically in the direction of the enemy city.
For almost three moons they walked and stumbled; they received rest and paid for food at the numerous housesteads dotted on the plainslands.
They feared the soldiers of Lornwater more than the Devastators.
But one day, as Nikkonslor, in a typical fit of jealousy, blotted out Jahdemor’s azure sky from the eyes of mortals, their encampment was brutally attacked.
The Lornwater mercenaries, returning from the ransacking of Goldalese, had spotted the small camp fire and, ever-eager for fresh booty, encircled the camp. When they saw there were only two adults to contend with, they sprang into the clearing.
Jasebours put up a good fight, slaying one mercenary and wounding two others. There were six more, however: too many. Knowing the odds were hopeless, he fought with unequalled savagery, giving Elar time to melt into a breach in the attackers’ ranks.
Reluctantly, tears streaming, Elar ran into the long grass with young Loring in her arms.
On the edge of a copse, Jasebours fought until sheer weight of numbers downed him, swords slashing his legs, muscles and tendons. On his knees, he fought in his own blood – until he was disarmed and dispatched with no less than five swords piercing his brave heart.
Blood-lust was rife among the surviving four mercenaries as their wounded comrades died at their own hands: fewer shares for the pickings.
They ransacked the camp and, angered at the lack of decent loot, they recalled the fleeing woman.
Confident that she wouldn’t have run far, they charged through the long grass in her wake.
The clouds of Nikkonslor wisped away at an inopportune time, revealing Elar’s blue dress partly concealed amidst a large cluster of yellow flowers.
A sunbeam betrayed her.
She screamed as the mercenaries loped through the grass, their swords dripping her husband’s blood upon the flowers. Before she could rise from her hiding place with Loring, they were upon her. Two pinned her down, ignoring her pleading shrieks.
She called for Loring to run away.
Another ripped off her clothing while the fourth held the boy at bay with difficulty.
They each took their pleasure until Elar ceased screaming and lay staring wide-eyed and inert. Her child was racked with terrible sobs.
Then the boy’s captor kneeled forward with an arrow entering his left ear and emerging from his right.
The present molester died more slowly, an arrow piercing each of his buttocks, and a third sank into his back instants later.
The other two let go of Elar only to run into the arms of ten Kellan-Mesqa.
Loring ran to his mother but she didn’t respond though quite alive.
He knelt and sobbed on her breast as the Devastators dealt rough justice to the two surviving mercenaries. Once emasculated, they were let loose to stagger across the plains naked. If they did not die from loss of blood, they would succumb to exposure.
Tenderly, the Kellan-Mesqa warriors wrapped Elar in furs and carried her on a hide stretcher. The largest of them carried Loring who had fallen into a sleep of exhaustion.
In truth, Loring should have been irreparably affected by his experience. But the Hansenand Kellan-Mesqa at that time were led by a leader of great kindness and sagacity: against all advice, he kept the child away from his mother for a full year. Elar was well cared for but quite insane.
After the year, Loring was able to sleep most nights without screaming in nightmare. He was told about his mother, how she was deteriorating; immediately, he offered to help her, and became her right hand. She was exasperating at times but he was determined to help as much as he could.
Almost another year passed for them, then she gradually improved and began speaking lucidly where before there had been no speech. As advised, he did not betray his own identity as her son; it was felt that remembering him would pitch her back into her catatonic state.
Elar died during a battle between the Hansenand and the Baronculer hordes. The Hansenand won at great cost. But the enemy was broken; after that, peace prospered.
Loring ran away shortly after committing his mother to her last resting place. He was caught suffering from exposure two days later and was punished by being kept in the women’s tents for two solid quarters.
Many more times did he run away in the ensuing moons, but as he matured and made friends with the young men of the horde, he ran away less and less, and finally settled.
But by then he was stuck with his name, Ulran – Runaway.
They had been idyllic days and nights, sleeping in the open beneath the vault of stars, camping in their thousands on the rolling grassy slopes of the plains. Colours and furs dotted the slopes, pennons from lances furled in the summer breeze.
The Hansenand became the most feared and respected horde of Kellan-Mesqa.
Their leader had eradicated the lust for blood and raiding within the horde itself and hoped to affect the other hordes similarly by their example.
But intrigues existed, of which he was unaware.
A boy then, Solendoral had overheard some plotters discussing the proposed poisoning of their leader and he had rushed out into the night to find Ulran and ask his advice.
The orphan of Goldalese had been as shocked as Solendoral.
Alas, being youngsters, they were not able to obtain an audience with their leader.
When they approached Solendoral the Elder, he guffawed and said smugly that no such thing could happen to the Hansenand’s leader. They were a mighty horde with enemies, true, but the enemies were weak and divided.
Two nights later, unearthly screams issued from the leader’s tent, as though the very devils of the Underworld had rampaged upon the earth.
Guards rushed in.
All was chaos: upon the floor writhed their leader, face the colour of his purple robe; he coughed up his insides in vain. His death was the beginning of the end for the horde’s monopoly of power.
Fewer and fewer hordes paid geld to them; the raids upon housesteads increased and, finally, when a montar of Hansenand attempted saving a housestead, they were branded as surely as the true culprits.
Thereafter, all hordes were again maligned by every city; trading fell off and caravans were strengthened with outriders employed to hunt down small montars and kill them for per capita payment.
Their decline was gradual. The Kellan-Mesqa measured time by counting the days their leaders ruled over them. A legacy from the older days when the Kellan-Mesqa had lived like the Furdhars in their own countries before Hewwa’s Revenge.
If a man became leader and possessed the name of a previous leader, he must change his name for the Kellan-Mesqa calendar’s sake. So the decline of the Hansenand stretched over many leader-days, or almost thirty city-dwellers’ years.
And Ulran only saw the first seven years following the great leader’s murder.
He had witnessed the writing on the wall, clearer than most. His boyhood friend Solendoral had seen it too but fervently hoped he could once again make the Hansenand a great people, if chosen.
Ulran hoped so too, just as ardently, but he felt drawn to finish with this nomadic
life. He must seek out new horizons.
He was inexplicably attracted to Lornwater, where Queen Neran IV reigned; she was said to be fair and honest, quite unlike her predecessor who had warred for pleasure and sacked Goldalese.
Ulran’s leave-taking was sad but there were no regrets on either side. Men now, they understood each had to go his own way, make his own mark as he saw fit, as the Book of the Living decreed.
***
Ulran and Solendoral stood in front of a blazing log fire at the door of his round hide-and-wood flat-roofed tent. His eyes looked glazed, recalling the vast numbers in the camps of old. “Days too far gone ever to be recalled, Solendoral.”
“Our world is changing.”
“Change is good for all of us. Floreskand’s history has been one of stagnation for too long.”
“Aye, that I can vouch for,” added Alomar. “I’ve seen more than most.” He chuckled. “A thousand years seem to pass–” He faltered, eyeing Solendoral and his strange looks.
Fhord smiled and delved into the bowl of vegetable stew and buck-balls.
“So we shall be together, Solendoral, you and your people, at least as far as the mountains?”
“Yes. We have much to speak on.”
***
Two days later while traversing a burnt area of grassland, Solendoral called a halt to their movement. He turned to Ulran. “Blighted,” he said savagely.
Curious, the innman said, “In what manner?”
“A great bird – a red tellar – we saw it being chased by hawks – and it was suffering from countless wounds.” He shuddered at the memory.
His brown eyes, slanted and wary, saddened. “I ordered my men to shoot down as many attackers as possible. Ever mindful of the Overlord, you see,” he said, tapping his birthmark, the one thing he had always avoided mentioning to Ulran. “But there were too many. My men’s marksmanship was good, see–” He pointed to the skeletons of birds strewn around the burnt-out patch.
Fhord was out of ear-shot but Alomar was listening intently beside the innman. Neither showed the anxiety they felt.
Fighting down his inmost fears, Ulran asked equably, “And what became of this red tellar?”
“Downed with two birds clawing at each wing and another with its beak at his throat.” He swerved in his high saddle, hand on pommel. “We were there when the bird came down.” He pointed to a knoll. “I can hear the thud even now. We covered but half the distance to here when a sudden bright burst of flame broke out.”
Solendoral pointed to the scorched grass. “That was all that remained, of pursued and pursuers...”
PART FOUR
THIRD SUFIN OF FORNIOUS - FOURTH DURIN OF DAROUS
The Song of the Overlord – Part the Fourth:
Of everything, He is the potentiality
He is one with all perception and sensation
He made Love and Strife aforetime and evermore
Prevail in each turn of life’s rich cycle
Where the feeble senses of man fail
He doth dominate with gentle firmness
His will and inclination are with all
With His own acts through others, satisfied is He.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TRIAL
Respect and co-operation are in all things the law of life;
jealousy and avarice the law of death.
– Tangakol Tract
The day after the discovery of the blighted grass, they were attacked by a roving montar of Baronculer. Their five wagons and fire-wagon afforded some protection but the attack had been well planned, the Devastators waiting for them to arrive in a narrow hollow in the land, easy prey to the Baronculer arrows.
Neither horde knew or showed fear, nor was it evident in the eyes of Alomar or Ulran. But Fhord, still badly shaken at learning the fate of Scalrin – their good augur from the Overlord – was barely capable of wielding sword and shield.
Ulran seemed to be everywhere, unhampered by any cumbersome armour. He fought so swiftly, turning and pivoting, as though he possessed a third eye in the back of his skull. On two separate occasions he saved Solendoral’s life.
And the Hansenand were glad that Courdour Alomar was present and on their side. Seeming slow and ponderous, he was more than enough to be reckoned with – any Baronculer horseman foolish enough to battle with him ended up in the Vale of the Overlord with cleft skull and often a cleft torso as well. The immortal’s sword rang clamorously and dripped redly, flashing to and fro, the mighty arm endowing it with preternatural power.
During a slight lull – as the attackers regrouped for another mounted sally with freshly-honed spears – Alomar again heard the distinctive sound of the innman’s weapon. Where had he heard that before? Their eyes met over a fresh corpse. Together they signalled, as if kin, and both grinned.
The second Baronculer charge broke into shreds. Crippled and wounded were left sprawled as the surviving fifteen or so fled.
Victory cries followed them, taunting.
And over all billowed the smoke from the fire-wagon.
But Solendoral, staunching a wounded thigh, soon brought them back to sober thoughts. For they had lost three, one of them Wolderiq, and a woman. This great montar of the Hansenand horde was now reduced to forty-six. And only four of the women were of child-bearing age. The girl-children would not reach puberty for another three years.
Beneath the waning of the full moon and highlighted by the lambent camp fires, Solendoral explained. “You know, yourself, Ulran, we Hansenand have always been of good stock, respecting life and belongings of all men. We have remained pure of blood, also. And this is where we are weakest.”
“Inter-breeding can produce weak people,” observed Cobrora Fhord to everyone’s surprise. She went on pedantically: “If you recall the history of Carlash. Yes, the intermarriage of the royal house. After eight generations, what did the queen produce? Weak, half-rabid children, prone to the vacillations of the moonlight, incapable of ruling themselves let alone a kingdom!”
Courdour Alomar grunted, poked a stick in the fire. “The bookworm has a good point. You’re in danger of extinction, Solendoral. You and your people must accept changes in your ancient laws – or perish. I’ve known of some housesteads...” He paused and Ulran wondered if the immortal was perhaps thinking back a good eight generations himself. “They kept to themselves, became powerful in the immediate area and thrived, the family growing. But eventually, the interbreeding told, the offspring were more and more aberrant. The more brats they had, the worse they became. That housestead is now a ruin – yes, I’m talking about Ivasr knoll.”
The eyes of those Kellan-Mesqa present widened. All had heard tales of that ghostly hulk of a building upon the grassy knoll, the timbers long-returned to the earth, only the stone-pieces and the countless shrines to the interred remaining. Some said that on a night of full moon voices could be heard there.
Lines furrowed Solendoral’s brow, evidence enough that Fhord’s and Alomar’s arguments were wrestling with the leader’s conscience. “But since Hewwa’s Revenge we’ve always kept our marriages within the tribes – exchanging blood only at Giving Feasts.”
“Then, when you were counted in thousands and Giving Feasts were often, it did not matter,” Ulran said. “But now, your numbers are so small you’ll suffer. You’ll become extinct while the others – the Baronculer and Selveleaf – will become stronger and more plentiful than the Hansenand. Because they won’t baulk at mating with outsiders, with ranmeron slaves or captives. You know, yourself, Brother, no matter how beloved of the horde I was, I would never have been allowed a spouse within your montar. The laws and the Elders forbade it.” Ulran sighed. “It may be too late already, but I advise you to seek new paths. A great people don’t resist change: they remodel it to their liking, to their advantage. You,” he rose, waved his arms to encompass the small encampment, “the Hansenand must do this – or cease to be.”
Next day they skirted the Halas housestead; i
t stood in a similar hollow to the Bashen’s.
The sight revived memories for Fhord.
Yet there was no real comparison. The Bashen’s miraculously had been ill-fortified, and manned suicidally by but three men and two women, while the Halas place was twice the area, with stone revetments, the building raised on barrows of earth, built with stone and wood – a small fortress. Even the tilled fields had watch-towers overseeing them.
The last occasion Alomar had been there, he remarked, he counted no less than four families living together, numbering something like twenty men and twelve women. Enough to hold off any small raiding montar of war-hungry Devastators.
But they would not be visiting any housestead, whether or not he had personal experience of the owners. The Hansenand were Kellan-Mesqa and all Devastators, peace-loving and war-hungry alike, were hated and feared.
Trying to forget the unbidden memories of Slane, Fhord drew Sarolee alongside Versayr and asked, “Ulran, I’m troubled by Scalrin’s uncanny death.”
“Wait, Fhord, please,” replied the innman. “Firstly, we do not know for certain that the bird Solendoral saw was Scalrin.” Fhord was about to remonstrate when Ulran raised a peremptory hand. “How can we know – there was no trace. But, should your fears be realised, and Scalrin was killed – though how, in what manner, and by whom, we couldn’t even begin to guess – then, we have nothing to fear. No, it is whosoever destroyed Scalrin who must be filled with dread. Yes, fear of the Overlord’s wrath.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Fhord shook her head, forced a smile. “I – I’ve never seen a man fight as you do, Ulran – with such faith, conviction – and so incredibly fast!”
“If you’re convinced I’m not a Kormish Warrior, then next you’ll be saying I’m a member of the Sardan sect!”
“I think not – my brother belongs to that secret society and though he is a mystic of great importance and possesses many strange faculties, he could never be compared with you in any way.”
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