Brian Ruckley - Fall of Thanes

“If you need to sleep, we can always continue our discussions later,” Nyve said, a little louder this time.

Theor opened his eyes and winced apologetically at his friend. The old warrior was watching him, but there was no irritation or impatience in his gaze. Nyve would understand as well as anyone what it was to find the body ageing and faltering before the spirit within had prepared itself for the change. Nyve’s hands were all but crippled, bunched into claws that would barely respond to their owner’s command.

“I like this bench you’ve got here,” Theor observed.

“So do I.”

“I might have one made for myself.”

“Too indulgent for the Lore, surely?” Nyve grunted. “I doubt your people would approve.”

“Seeking approval does not really accord with the precepts of the creed. In any case, I find myself less and less concerned with the approval of others as the years pass.”

“Indeed,” Nyve said, and then glanced at the manservant. “Help me up.”

The First of the Battle rose, only a fraction unsteady, leaning on the servant’s arm. Once he was securely on his feet he dismissed the attendant with a silent flick of his head.

“Pass me that robe, would you?” he said to Theor once they were alone in the warm, humid stone chamber. Theor hung the robe on his friend’s shoulders and watched as Nyve made his careful way over to the heated bench.

Nyve settled onto the stone with a satisfied sigh. He stared at Theor. Those eyes, at least, were undimmed, unblunted. It was still the gaze of a fierce and potent warrior for the faith.

“You’re tired,” Nyve said. “You look sick, in fact.”

“I feel both. The world’s as unsteady beneath my feet as a foundering boat. I am… lost, I suppose.” Theor knew he should feel shame that such words were on his lips. He was the First of the Lore, custodian of the creed. Keeper of the truth. He, of all people, should be resistant to the kind of uncertainty and confusion that assailed him. Yet there was no point in pretending things were other than they were. Not in front of Nyve, at least.

The First of the Battle grunted. “Whisper such things softly, friend. There’s danger in honesty.”

“It seems to me we are beset by dangers of many kinds,” Theor murmured. “There are terrible temptations in success. It all too easily breeds pride, or error.”

“I see you are entirely determined to discuss Shraeve, no matter how it pains you to walk upon the Battle’s ground,” smiled Nyve.

Theor shrugged regretfully. “I must do as my heart and my faith bid me.”

“As I say, the horse is running. It is not our hands that guide it, but fate.”

“That is as it may be, but I fear Ragnor oc Gyre lays the blame for his Captain’s death on our all too mortal shoulders. Temegrin the Eagle may not have been the most valued of the High Thane’s servants, but neither was he entirely inconsequential. Ragnor sees our scheming, rather than fate’s working, in the ascendancy of this halfbreed. In Shraeve’s… accomplishments.”

“And you?” Nyve asked quietly. “I care less than I should what our High Thane thinks. Tell me what you see.”

“I see nothing as clearly as I would wish. Fiallic was a good man. Measured. You told me yourself he was the finest Banner-captain the Battle has had in our lifetimes. Shraeve is… more turbulent.” He spread his hands, an almost helpless gesture. “This is not where any of us thought this track might lead. You cannot be as free of doubt as you pretend.”

Nyve grunted. “Of course. If it was my choice, I’d have Fiallic back. If these bent hands could shape things, he would have killed Shraeve. But he didn’t. No message I’ve had from the south, no rumour even, denies that she won her rank justly, by the will of fate.”

“And the halfbreed? She has drawn up your entire host, all the ranks of your ravens, at the side of some mongrel who was supposed to be nothing more than a tool in the hands of the Horin Blood. I find myself uncertain whose purposes are being served.”

Nyve regarded Theor pensively. He rested his hands, knuckles down, on the bench.

“I was never much given to deep thought on matters such as this; you know that.” He gestured, club-handed, at the lumpen scar across the side of his head. “Had I spent much time thinking about it, I’d likely have taken flight. Let the hound that took my ear go hungry. But the path of my life was not written that way. It seems to me…”

He hesitated, narrowing his eyes as he searched for the right words. “It seems to me that this is what we are for, you and I. Our lives have been very simple things: to serve the creed, to follow-and foster-the descent of this world to its inevitable ruin. We have been, in every sense that matters, meaningless except in our service to that purpose.

“So don’t ask me to shed whatever little meaning I have had now, in the twilight of my life.” Nyve smiled, as if feeling the glow of that very twilight on his skin. “The ascendancy of the creed is closer than ever before. By whatever means, however unexpectedly, Shraeve has restored us-the Inkalls-to heights we have not seen in many years. It is to us that the people look now for guidance, not the Thanes. If we pull back, hesitate, would we not make a lie of the long lives we have led? Would we not be denying the very purpose that has been our guide? I am too old to make such changes, friend. We both are. We’ve always been in the hands of fate. That the journey along the Road has become tortuous does not change that.”

Theor nodded. He understood. He felt it himself: the nagging sense that whatever doubts now assailed him were a betrayal of something precious and central to him. That if he surrendered to them, he would render himself, and the life he had lived, entirely empty. Still, those doubts were there. As was the insidious, all but heretical, fear that fate was somehow going astray from its proper path.

“Do you sleep well?” he asked Nyve. “Are your dreams troubled?”

There was only the briefest moment of hesitation. “I dream of violence. And of death. But I have always done so. They’ve been my sleep-companions as long as I can remember. And you? Is your rest uneasy?”

“It is.” Theor had to hold himself back. Some things he could not share, even with this oldest of friends. The waking dreams brought by seerstem belonged to the Lore, and only to the Lore. Yet a part of him wanted to tell Nyve how harsh and inhospitable the inner territories that seerstem opened up had become. The herb had blackened Theor’s lips over the years: the smallest of prices to pay for the comfort and insight it had brought. But whatever it brought now, it was not comfort. Fear, sometimes. Doubt. It obscured where once it had clarified. The strange dreamlands that lay beyond the seerstem gate were bleak and unwelcoming. There was always the sensation of someone looking over his shoulder, or some movement just beyond the corner of his dreaming eye.

“I’m tired,” he murmured. “Perhaps that’s all it is. Perhaps I grow too old and weak to face the unfolding of fate’s great plan.”

“You’ve a few years in you yet,” Nyve grunted.

“Perhaps. I am to meet with Ragnor oc Gyre. Down in Kan Dredar. He refuses to come to the Sanctuary, which is as sure a sign as you could wish for of his fraying patience. I thought perhaps you could provide me with an escort. I hear that there is unrest in the town. Riots. Killings.”

“You shall have as fine a guard of my ravens as you wish, First.” Nyve chuckled. “It will do our High Thane good to see that all the Children of the Hundred stand shoulder to shoulder in this. And that the Battle still has enough swords here to put on a show.”