Brian Ruckley - Fall of Thanes

“Mean anything?” Yvane snapped, coming to a sudden halt and jabbing Orisian in the chest. “She means as much as I do. Or you. That is precisely what she means. Or do you think a mere halfbreed must work harder than that to have meaning?”

“You know that’s not — ” Orisian protested.

“Something’s been done to her,” Yvane rushed on, uninterested in anything he might have to say. “That’s what you said. Well, she didn’t do it to herself. The Anain have scraped out her mind, as best we can tell. As if she was nothing, as if whatever thoughts and feelings were in there before mattered not at all. She’s a victim in all of this, as surely as anyone is. As surely as Inurian was, or Cerys or any of the others at Highfast.”

She hung her head. The two of them stood there in the dark yard, the wind rumbling overhead.

“Nevertheless,” murmured Orisian.

“Nevertheless,” said Yvane dully. “There’s always a nevertheless. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to try to sleep.” She turned and walked away from him, towards the pale flame of a candle burning in the window of the house.

Orisian stalked back to his bedchamber with a familiar, imprecise anger churning in him. It was always there, always ready to fill any spaces in his thoughts if given the chance. Yvane would say it was the wake Aeglyss left as he moved through the Shared, discolouring everything-every mind-it washed up against. Orisian did not know. It felt like his own thing, crafted from his own experience, but he did not doubt that such a sense might be deceptive. It hardly mattered. It was there, in his heart and his mind, and he must deal with it, whatever its source.

Before taking to his bed he looked down on the orchard once more. The fire was still burning, a little beacon beneath the creaking and swaying apple trees. There was no sign of Ess’yr and Varryn. They had probably retired to the shelters they had made for themselves.

He laid himself out on the mattress and closed his eyes. He no longer expected any night to bring easy rest, for they were always full of frightening dreams and sudden wakings. Still, he could hope.

Orisian broke his fast the next morning in the main hall. The trestle tables were lined with Guardsmen, and with the homeless and destitute given shelter in the barracks. Orisian sat with Taim and Torcaill and the rest of the Lannis warriors.

The hall was filled with cacophonous activity. Plates clattered; arguments raged; cooks and servants rushed back and forth. Orisian’s head ached, and he winced at each crash of a falling tray and each shouted insult. The night had not, in the end, been restful. Several times he had woken with a heart set racing by the horror of some forgotten dream. The wind had raged all through the hours of darkness, shaking the building.

“Two dead sentries on the edge of town last night,” Taim said between mouthfuls of salted porridge.

“No one saw anything?” asked Orisian.

Taim shook his head. “But one of them was savaged. Had his hand almost torn off, and his throat bitten out. Dogs, it looked like.”

“Hunt Inkallim,” said Torcaill. He looked as weary as Orisian felt.

“Seems likely,” agreed Taim. “There’s a good chance one or more of them got inside the town. Not a good sign.”

“I don’t mean to be chased out of here yet,” said Orisian quickly. Best, he thought, to anticipate the suggestion he could already imagine Taim formulating.

The warrior regarded his Thane for a moment or two, and Orisian could see his disagreement clearly in his expression, but when Taim spoke it was mildly: “The Hunt’d only be creeping around in here for two reasons I can think of. Either they meant to kill someone-you, most likely, if they know you’re here-or they’re scouting the place out for an attack. Neither choice bodes well for us.”

“I know,” Orisian said.

Although Ive was a substantial town, one of the Kilkry Blood’s biggest, it was ill prepared to stand against an assault. It had long been remote from any disputed land or battlefield; it had no castle, and the wall that once ringed it had long ago been dismantled, its stones turned to more peaceful use in the skeletons of barns and farmhouses.

For days now, labourers had been toiling all around the edge of town, trying to encircle it with a ditch and timber palisade. Until that work was completed, Ive’s only defence was the flesh and steel of the warriors gathered there, the Guard and the poorly armed townsfolk themselves. In all there were perhaps a thousand trained fighting men, and another two thousand untrained but willing and able to fight. More than enough to master the savage but disorganised raiding bands they had faced so far; too few to last long if the Black Road’s full might descended upon them.

“There might still be time to get to Kilvale,” Torcaill said, sounding almost hopeful. “For every score that turn up in Ive each day, there’s a dozen leaving and heading south. They think the road’s still open.”

“But they don’t know,” Orisian said. “Nobody knows who’s in control anywhere, not really. It’d take… what, two days to get there? If we’re caught on the road, we’d be finished. And there’s nowhere the Black Road will want more than Kilvale. It’s their birthplace. If we did reach Kilvale, and it falls, where do we run to then? Dun Aygll? Vaymouth, even? What kind of a Thane would that make me?”

He glared questioningly at Torcaill. The warrior studied his bowl, stirring the porridge within it carefully.

Taim Narran was less reticent. “A living one, at least,” he murmured.

Orisian looked at the older warrior, an angry retort boiling up towards his lips. But the momentary fury passed. He breathed deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He pressed finger and thumb to his temple, willing the throbbing in his skull to subside. “I just think… I think we lack the strength to make any difference in whatever struggles are to come between Haig and the Black Road. And we-you most of all, Taim-could hardly expect a warm welcome from Aewult, in any case.”

“It’s true Haig has no need of our few swords,” Taim acknowledged. “Gryvan must wake to the danger now. Once he rouses himself and his people from sloth, the Black Road’s ascendancy will be at an end, Aeglyss or no Aeglyss. But we-you-still need to survive long enough to see that day. I’d not choose Ive to make a stand, if that’s…”

Erval, the leader of Ive’s Guard, came hurrying down between the lines of tables. He stumbled over a sword someone had rested against a bench, but rushed on regardless. He was red-faced, plainly agitated. Heads turned to follow his progress. He came to a rather disorderly halt behind Orisian and dipped into a hasty bow.

“There are messengers come in search of you, sire. I’ve got them waiting in the courtyard.”

“Who sent them?” Orisian asked.

The Guard Captain looked apologetic. “Aewult nan Haig, sire. They claim his authority, and through him that of his father, for the message they bear.”

“Let them freeze the rest of the day in the yard, then,” Torcaill muttered.

“I think they may have left their patience behind when they set out on their journey,” said Erval.

Orisian sighed and swung a leg out over the bench.

“There’s no point in delaying,” he said as he rose.

“It might be best,” Erval agreed, relief plain in his voice. “There’s a fierce mood in the town, and word’s already spreading that there’re Haig men here. You know how that will taste to people. The sooner they’ve said their piece and gone, the better.”

Torcaill and Taim were getting to their feet to follow Orisian.

“Not you, Taim,” he said.