The Plains of Kallanash (18 page)

“Not bad, actually.” He sounded surprised. “Like I just woke up from sleeping in an awkward position. A bit cramped, slightly woozy. How long was I out?”

“Couple of hours,” Gantor replied. “Bit more, maybe.”

“But that was the last one, right? He’s done, now, isn’t he?”

“He’s done,” said Gantor, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. “Now it’s up to us.”

“And the Gods, Most Respected,” said the Slave. “And the Gods.”

~~~

As soon as he felt well enough, Hurst disappeared into the evening gloom with his Companions, and also Drantior and Missandra, who had waited patiently throughout the afternoon’s events. “I’ll see you later, at meat,” was all Hurst said as he left. Mia looked at the Healing Slave and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that is one of them I don’t have to worry about. Unless the Voices send an agent.”

“Unlikely, I should think,” the Slave replied. “They rarely do that, unless the situation remains… difficult. Let’s see what happens with the final arrow before we start worrying about agents, Most High.”

Mia’s own Companions were also waiting, and Marna gave her a big hug.

“There!” said Morsha. “Hurst is safe, at least.”

“You should rest for a while,” said Mista. “You’ve missed the afternoon stillness.”

“We all have,” said Mia. “That’s a good idea. I’m exhausted.”

The walk to the high tower seemed even further than usual today, and Mia began to wonder if her legs would carry her so far. Through the great hall they trooped, guards in front, Companions behind, a cluster of servants and yet more guards at the rear, then into the middle hall, the inner hall and the guest hall. Then on in formation up the broad stairway to the family hall and the door to the high tower, where she could finally leave them all behind.

Relieved to be on her own at last, and exhausted after the climb up the stairs, she went into the cool room set into the southern wall to find some fruit juice. As she opened the door, she almost bumped into Jonnor, wine decanter in hand. He flushed a little, and dropped his eyes, squeezing past her without a word. But when she emerged with her drink, he was waiting for her.

“Are you… feeling better now?” he asked.

“I… Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re fond of him,” he blurted, and then flushed again.

“Well, of course! He’s been my husband for more than ten years, and he’s always been a good friend to me.”

“You didn’t cry over me when I was hit.” It didn’t sound like an accusation, just a statement of fact.

She felt guilty anyway. “I didn’t know! No one came to tell me. I only found out afterwards.”

He hesitated, and then looked her straight in the eye. “I’m glad he survived.”

“Are you?” she said, surprise making her blunt.

“Yes,” he said at once. “I’ve never killed anyone, and I don’t want to kill Hurst. None of this is my doing, you know, none of it. We had an arrangement, everything was fine. But once he made his choice, that was it, I had to give it a go, didn’t I? I couldn’t let him shoot at me without at least trying to get him first. But it looks like the Gods want me, not him.”

“Maybe they don’t want either of you. Let’s hope, at least.”

“And where would that leave us? No, one of us has to go. I just hope he gets it over with quickly, that’s all. Will you miss me, little Mia?”

But she couldn’t answer, for the tears were flowing again.

Hurst was euphoric after his escape from death. He had the last remaining arrow and could take his time and pick his moment. He was a little concerned, however, that Jonnor had been knocked out twice now and yet he had survived.

They were all sitting around in Gantor’s library, as Trimon passed around the wine, and Walst handed out cakes. Gantor’s brother Drantior and his wife Missandra were also there.

“Two clean shots, and he’s survived both,” Hurst muttered. “Maybe the Gods don’t want him?”

“That is unusual, certainly,” said Missandra. “As a rule, it only takes one good shot. What happened, exactly?”

Hurst did his best to describe the events surrounding both the arrows Trimon had fired so far, with the others adding their memories as well.

Missandra listened carefully and nodded. “So the first time, Cole and Torman were kneeling beside Jonnor. What did they do, can you remember?”

“Well…” They looked at each other, puzzled.

“Did they touch him at all?”

Trimon shrugged, for he’d been too far away to see details.

“I don’t remember,” said Gantor. “I was too annoyed with them for buzzing round him at all. They were supposed to stay well clear, we all were.”

“They were checking for a pulse,” said Hurst. “You know, the usual thing when someone’s hurt
– get the helmet off, make sure he has air, check for a pulse, turn him on his side. They must have touched him.”

“Did they take his helmet off?” Missandra asked.

“Wasn’t wearing one,” said Gantor. “He was all geared up, but he was instructing that day, so no helmet, just the usual protective gear. Is it important?”

“Did they remove any of his clothing?” she persisted, reaching for another cake.

“They took off his gorget and unfastened everything round his throat,” said Hurst. “So he could breathe. It’s what we’re all trained to do when someone falls like that.”

“Is it important?” Gantor asked again.

“It’s interesting,” Missandra said, dropping crumbs. “And the second time, no one was around at all?”

“Just me,” said Trimon. “I got Walst to watch him while I went to find a Slave. Took forever. Fucking Slaves, they just disappeared. Can’t get rid of them most of the time, but as soon as you need one, they all vanish. Waste of time, anyway, cos he was waking up by the time they got there.”

“But no one came near him,” said Walst, “I can vouch for that.”

“Interesting,” said Missandra, her eyes gleaming.

“Is it?” said Walst. “What do you know about all this that we don’t?”

“Oh, it’s part of my research,” she beamed. “Karningholder family law, history of. Fascinating, actually.”

“Take your word for it,” Gantor said, draining his goblet and reaching for the decanter.

“Oh but it is! This whole business of a wife dyin
g–
it’s just
so
interesting. Did you know, for instance, that originally the husband was burned with his wife? They were in strict pairs in those days. Then it was poison. But marriages became – well, more fluid, shall we say, over the years, and husbands got a bit rebellious about dying for a wife who had perhaps been off with the other husband anyway. And when the Companions were introduced, things got even more muddled. So then it was combat – the two remaining husbands would settle it with swords. I’ve always thought that was a very appropriate way to do it – two warriors fighting to the death for one woman. But it was messy. Sometimes they both died, and sometimes they cheated, and sometimes they didn’t want to do it at all.
That
idea didn’t last long! So now we have the blue arrows, with all its arcane rules. So tell me, Hurst,” she said, turning abruptly to face him, “what do you think makes the difference? Why does a man survive one arrow but not another?”

“The Gods decide,” he said with a shrug. “Who knows why?”

“But you don’t believe that.” She made it a statement, not a question.

“I find it odd,” he said slowly, “that the Gods would intervene in that way. It’s so direct. I mean, they choose people all the time, we find fallers in skirmishes who are marked, Tella was marked, but that sort of thing comes out of nowhere. This
– asking the Gods to make a decision and they do, well, that’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Exactly!” she said in triumph, as if she had scored a hit. They all stared at her, bewildered, but Drantior chuckled.

“Missa,” he said, shaking his head, “just tell them.”

“Oh, all right. There is a theory that it’s not so much the Gods themselves who do all this, but the Slaves.”

“The Slaves?” Gantor’s forehead creased, and then cleared. “Ah! You mean—?”

“Exactly!” she said again, chortling at them.

“I don’t get it,” Trimon said.

“S’easy,” Gantor said. “Slaves get to the faller first, everyone else has to keep away so they can do something
– poison, I’d guess.”

“Probably,” Missandra said.

“So the Gods tell the Slave which one they’ve chosen, but the Slave does the actual… well, the business?” said Trimon.

“Something like that,” Missandra said with a vague wave of the hand.

“But what about the mark? There’s always a mark, isn’t there? Do the Slaves do that too?”

“I’d guess that’s a result of the poison. It probably denotes the point of entry. It’s usually around the neck or shoulders.”

“So if someone else gets there first and unfastens the shirt, they would see that there was no mark, see?” said Gantor impatiently. “So they can’t do anything. And if there’s no Slave—”

“—they can’t do anything,” finished Walst, then added under his breath, “Fucking Slaves! They’re into everything.”

“I think it’s more that they don’t want anyone to see what they’re doing,” Missandra said. “If the faller is already surrounded by people when they get there, they can’t do anything without it being seen. They have to get there first, with everyone well back, then they can do whatever it is unobserved.”

“So all we have to do,” Hurst said slowly, “is make sure there’s a Slave close by, and that no one else gets to Jonnor first?”

“Exactly!” beamed Missandra. “Are there any more of those little seed cakes?”

After Drantior and Missandra had gone off to coo over the children again, Hurst and his three Companions planned their tactics.

“So – we need a Slave nearby,” said Trimon, “and not too many other people around. That’s going to be tricky. Now that their arrows have all gone, Torman, Cole and Zanikor are going to be hovering round Jonnor like flies round meat.”

“Well, we have plenty of time,” Gantor said.

“True enough,” said Hurst. “We can take as long as we like over it, and get everything right this time. We only have three days here anyway, and then we’re off south. We could wait until we get back, if you want to, Trimon?”

“No bother to me,” he shrugged. “I can pop him whenever you like.”

“Well then,” said Hurst, “let’s give it a go. Maybe not today, since this rain looks set in for the whole day, and we could all do with a training session without any threat of incidents. But tomorrow, if you like, or the next day, if you can be sure to get a clear shot. Walst, you stay with Trimon, be his second pair of eyes, make sure everything’s perfect. Gantor and I will try to make sure those three don’t interfere when Jonnor goes down.”

“We could ask the Hundred Leaders to help with that, you know,” said Gantor.

“Good idea. Right, so that’s settled,” Hurst said, but then he chewed his lip thoughtfully. “You know, now that I’m safe, this might be a good time to see if we can call this off.”

“You’re joking, right?” said Walst. “Call it off? After five arrows?”

“Now that Jonnor’s the only one at risk, he might be more willing to talk,” Hurst said. “You never know. Maybe I’ll try him this evening, when his belly’s full of wine.”

But when they went to the training grounds that afternoon, there was a surprise awaiting them. Jonnor was deeply engaged in sword practice with one of the more experienced Skirmishers, with a Hundred Leader watching over them and a couple of Slaves nearby, but he was otherwise alone. His three Companions were scattered about, busy with their own training exercises.

“Well, looks quite ordinary, doesn’t it?” Gantor said with a bark of laughter.

“He’s on his own,” whispered Trimon. “Want me to stick him?”

“No. Let’s keep to the plan. I need a normal day, for a change. Spear, I think. Gantor, you want to take me on?”

“Fine by me. Less painful than swordwork.”

“It’s only your height gives you an edge with the spear, you know,” grinned Walst. “Don’t fool yourself it’s skill.”

“You’re just jealous, shorty. What are you two going to do?”

“I’ll be down at the targets,” said Trimon, and strode off.

“Like he needs the practice,” said Walst, rolling his eyes. “But I do.” And he followed Trimon to the archery targets.

Hurst spent some time with Gantor, then they moved on to other partners. He was concentrating, so it took some time to realise there was something going on. Gradually, he became aware that people were stopping what they were doing, turning, looking across the grounds. As the clash of weapons died away, he heard the shouting, louder and more sustained than any trainer giving instructions. It seemed to be coming from the archery section.

He and Gantor dropped their spears and threaded their way through the frozen clusters of men, splashing through the mud. As they got nearer they began to make out odd words and then complete phrases and eventually the whole scene came into view. Trimon was standing at the line, pulling arrows from his quiver, nocking them, drawing and then shooting, in a steady rhythm. Pull, nock, draw, fire. Pull, nock, draw, fire. Pull, nock, draw, fire. His concentration was total. Beside him, restrained by Walst and another man, was Jonnor, shouting at the top of his voice.

“Come on, you fucking coward, I’m right here! What’s the matter with you? Let’s get this settled once and for all. Fuck you, Trimon, you fucking bastard, just do it!”

All around them, men stood open-mouthed.

Jonnor suddenly caught sight of Hurst.

“At last! What’s the matter with you people, have you gone soft all of a sudden? Come on, let’s get this over with. I’m making it easy for you, so let’s not mess about. For the Gods’ sake, Hurst, tell him to get the arrow out!”

Abruptly, Trimon lowered his bow and spun round to face Hurst. “Give the word and I’ll fucking do it, too! Anything to shut him up!”

“See?” shouted Jonnor. “He wants to do it, I want him to do it, what are you waiting for?”

“Maybe we should talk about this, brother?” Hurst said, but Jonnor just snorted.

“Talk? Bit late for that! The time for talking is over. Come on, Hurst, give him the fucking order and get this fucking business over with. I’m not hiding away, I’m right here. It’ll be the easiest shot he’s ever taken, but just fucking do it and let’s finish this.”

“We don’t have to do this,” Hurst said desperately. “We can still come to some arrangement…”

Jonnor leaned forward until he was nose to nose with Hurst. “Never!” he spat. “You wanted me dead, you started all this, you’ll not wriggle out of it now,
brother
. If you want Mia, you’re going to have to kill me first.”

For an age they stood there, inches apart, breathing heavily. Hurst tried frantically to think of some way out, some way to persuade Jonnor to listen, to be reasonable. Yet some part of him knew that he was right. He had chosen this path, now he had to follow it to the bitter end. He stood back.

“Very well. Trimon, in your own time. Gantor, Walst, move everyone back. Where are the Slaves?”

“Over there,” said Gantor.

Jonnor walked back into the middle of the training ground until he was almost as far from Trimon as the archery target, and then turned to face him. He made no attempt to shield himself, standing fully exposed, legs apart, arms by his side, his expression still angry. Everyone nearby quickly scattered into a wide circle, leaving Jonnor isolated and alone. Two Slaves stood near Trimon, and a couple more were pushing through the circle on the opposite side.

Trimon reached into his quiver and pulled out another smaller quiver. From there he slowly drew out the last Blue Arrow, and nocked it. He carefully positioned himself and drew his bow.

Hurst could hardly breathe. In all his imaginings of this moment, he had never once thought it would come to this, in full public view, in anger and bitterness. Even the dreary rain seemed appropriate for such an ending. He had a piercing instant of regret that ten years of marriage should finish in this way. If only Tella had not died. If only Jonnor had been more accommodating. If only he had loved Mia less. If only…

The arrow flew. It hit Jonnor full on the chest. For a second nothing happened, then he crumpled straight down. Everyone waited. The Slaves
– there were even more of them now – circled in towards Jonnor. No one else moved. It seemed to Hurst, waiting in a fury of suspense, that it took forever for the Slaves to get close to Jonnor’s unconscious form. He fretted, for he was face down in the mud, and the trained soldier in him wanted to make sure he could breathe. But at last one of them – the Karninghold Slave himself, he thought – knelt down beside Jonnor.