The Plains of Kallanash (35 page)

“Mia,” he said in a whisper, “I want you to do exactly what I say, do you understand?” She nodded. “Go and stand by the horses, and keep them calm. Whatever you do, don’t scream, don’t run, don’t panic. There is a lion very close, but he won’t hurt us. Walk slowly. Go now.”

She went. She was very frightened, but he spoke with such confidence
, and she was so used to obedience, that it never occurred to her to argue. For long minutes she stood, soothing the horses by stroking their noses.

Then she saw it
– a large male lion with a long scar down one flank walking out of the long grass and onto the track not twenty yards from them. It stopped and almost it seemed to be staring directly at Dethin. He stood motionless on the edge of the island, looking down at the lion. Mia could hardly breathe. How long did they stand there eye to eye, man and lion? Impossible to say. But at last the lion turned and moved off to the north, following the kishorn.

Mia felt her legs had turned to water, but Dethin turned and strode across to the horses as if nothing had happened.

“We will have to make some speed now,” he said calmly. “We have been delayed too long.”

And he mounted his horse and rode off at a fast canter before she could ask any questions.

It was full dark before they reached the compound, and Mia was exhausted from the fast ride back. As soon as they were inside the gate two of Dethin’s men were there, speaking with urgent voices. He gave some terse instructions and they dashed off again.

“There goes my evening,” he said to Mia with a grimace. “The resupply has started, and I have to go straight up to Sixth to take charge.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. Once the carts start coming through the tunnels, I need to be there to make sure Kestimar doesn’t take all the best stuff. This is the only tunnel to get a resupply, so it has to serve the needs of all my Sections.”

They had reached the stables, and he dismounted. His men had brought his gear for him, and another horse stood waiting, already saddled and bearing his travel kit.

“Is there anything you want particularly?” he said to her, his voice softening a little. “We should get fruit this time.”

“That would be very nice.”

“Anything else? Clothes
– or anything?”

“Books,” she said, and then laughed at herself. “I don’t suppose they send many books, do they?”

“No, there aren’t many readers here, but I’ll see what I can find. I’ll be back in four or five days.”

Having lamented her lack of real work, now Mia found herself almost too busy. By the next evening, wagons began to arrive back at the compound laden with goods from the resupply, materials from the Karnings as their reward for the battle just past. It seemed a bizarre system to Mia, as she helped the kitchen workers fill the stores with sacks of potatoes and grains, barrels of apples and wine, boxes of dried fruits and salt and spices. Some wagons were full of swords and bows, daggers and spears, mail and helmets and armoured leather. There were bales of cloth, boots and cloaks and gloves, blankets and rugs and bandages and medicines. One wagon was full of panes of glass, and lengths of wood, a rare commodity. All of it would be stored and doled out to the Sections as it was needed.

Dethin returned with the last wagon.

“I’ve brought you some presents,” he said, smiling at Mia as he jumped off his horse and strode across to her where she waited near the tower door. He had brought her a whole bag full of little things he thought she might like
– a hairbrush, a small hand mirror, some fine linen for undergarments and a good quality riding scarf, a bottle of plums, some candied sweets and many more small items. He carried the bag into the canteen and insisted on unpacking it at once, pulling everything out one by one and watching her carefully to see if she approved. And to her great delight there were books. “They send some every time, it seems, but no one ever wanted them, so they got left up at Sixth. They had more, but I didn’t know what you like to read, so I just grabbed a few. I’ll take you up there to choose some more, if you like. Do you like them? Are you pleased?”

She had never seen him so animated, and she saw his men looking curiously at them as they passed by.

“Thank you, these are lovely,” she said with genuine pleasure. “They will keep me quiet for quite a while, I think. There’s no need for you to start rushing about again just yet. You must be tired.”

Nevertheless, Dethin was not fated to sit quietly at home for long, for he had not been back an hour when riders arrived from
Third Section bearing an urgent message. He was subdued all evening, but she thought he was preoccupied more than anything else. She felt she was beginning to understand his moods a little and there was no anger in him now. It was more like sadness. She didn’t dare to ask about it, but after the supper was cleared away and most of the men had drifted off to find ale or women or their beds, he told her himself.

“I have to go to Third tomorrow. There’s been an incident, and I have to be judge at the trial.”

“An incident? A trial? It must be serious then?”

“Yes.” He looked sideways at her, and for a moment her heart lurched. Was it something to do with her? Mista, perhaps? But she was unprepared for the truth. “Bulraney’s been killed.”

“What! How? Whatever happened?” Despite her shock, there was relief too – one man less for her to fear.

“Someone spitted him with a knife, apparently.”

“But why? And what will happen to whoever did it?”

“Why doesn’t really matter. Killing your Commander is one of the few crimes here punishable by death, always.”

“But he might have had a good reason…”

“There’s never a good reason. A Commander is the law in his own Section
; everyone has to respect that, otherwise we have anarchy.”

They went to bed early, but Dethin had retreated into his shell again and took her without a word or a kiss. She didn’t mind. She knew it would take a long time to release the affectionate man she suspected lay hidden inside his reserve, and it seemed that she would have all the time in the world to do it. Perhaps she might even grow to like him, if she stayed there long enough. At least he didn’t turn away from her afterwards, instead drifting off to sleep facing her, one arm casually resting on her belly. But she lay awake for a long time wondering who had dared to take a knife to Bulraney, and why.

Hurst’s cell was twelve paces by ten; he had had plenty of time to measure it carefully. Against one wall was a low wooden bench that also served as a bed, there was a jug of water in one corner and in another an archway led to a tiny alcove with a latrine opening directly to running water below. The floor was beaten earth, the walls solid stone and the door thick metal bars. Two narrow slits let in air and light from the outside. He had blankets, his cloak and even a pillow of sorts, so he was not uncomfortable.

The Warlord had been sent word of events, he was told, so now he must await his arrival and judgment. He was a stern man, they said, but fair and he would listen to all the evidence. Hurst would be able to speak on his own behalf. Nevertheless, no one had any doubt of the outcome. The penalty for killing was execution, and while two equals could argue self-defence or accident, and a Captain or Commander could claim the death of a junior was a matter of overenthusiastic discipline, there could be no justification for killing your own Commander. Bulraney had exercised his right to punish a subordinate, and Hurst was not entitled to do anything beyond submit. His only comfort was that as a warrior who had fought in battle, he had the right to die by the sword.

Gantor, Walst and Trimon were allowed to bring his food to him, although only one of them at a time. They sat with him while he ate it, and he gave them long rambling messages to be conveyed back to his father or Bernast or various of his brothers or Mia or Jonnor, in the unlikely event that they should see any of them again. “I wish I had paper and pen,” he said repeatedly, sighing. “This would be so much easier if I could write everything down.” When they were with him, they tried to keep him hopeful, but he could see the anger in them.

Hurst himself was resigned to his fate. He was aware that he had, in some sense, been looking for death ever since Mia had gone, and he was not disturbed now it seemed to have found him. It clarified things. It had always been a wild hope, that he could follow Mia and find her again, and even though he now knew that she had been here, he was no nearer finding her. She was not here now, she had a different name and it would be almost impossible to find her without some help from these people. He could hardly search for her through every single barbarian camp, it just wasn’t feasible. Besides, they were perfectly capable of moving her on deliberately, just to keep her out of reach. Tella, Jonnor, Mia… three Karningholders must have passed through here, each with three Companions, twelve people in all, yet only Mista was still here, and she knew nothing. It was hopeless.

Beyond his cell, the life of the Third Section went on. He heard voices passing his windows sometimes, or the distant clash of swords. Once or twice a wagon rolled past. Heddizan had assumed the role of Commander, but was eyeing Hurst’s three friends rather warily, as if he thought killing Commanders might be standard practice amongst them. Walst found to his astonishment that within a matter of hours of his successful challenge, he was abruptly promoted from Third Sword Captain to Second. He had moved into the Commander’s House with Trimon, but they reported that Mista had disappeared and the other women were tight-lipped when asked about her.

The Warlord arrived, unheralded, one day just before noon. Hurst was brought hot water to wash in and clean clothes, but no blade to trim his now bushy beard. The trial started after the noon meal had been cleared away, for the canteen was the only room above ground large enough for the purpose. Apart from a few guards on the outer walls, everyone from Third Section crowded in to listen, packing onto benches at the front, tables further back, and standing around the edges.

Hurst was not shackled in any way, but six wary looking warriors carrying unsheathed battle swords stood around him. He sat with the crowds behind him, and the Warlord facing him not three yards away. Hurst remembered him well from the battle, and without his helmet he looked even more harsh and unforgiving. This was not a man given to leniency, he suspected, and not a man inclined to be tolerant towards him in particular, given that he had allowed two men to go free during the battle.

It was strange to be so close to the man who perhaps had Mia in his keeping even now. Had he slept with her? Or allowed his Captains to do so? He seemed like an ascetic man himself, cold and distant, aloof from the excitement swilling round the room, so perhaps he disliked women altogether. And even if he knew Mia, had she talked about her husbands, would he even know who Hurst was? Somehow it didn’t pain him to think of such things. The Mia he loved belonged to her Karning, with her books and her delicate ways and her dainty birdlike movements, bobbing about fetching him wine or cooking the meat each evening. But that Mia was a dream to him now, just an empty ache in his heart and a shadowy memory, a mirage belonging to the grey stone towers and marble fountains of the Karning. She had no reality in this vast emptiness, this world of lawless warriors where women were no more than vessels for men’s pleasure.

The Warlord raised his hand and the room fell silent. One by one, men came forward to tell variations of the same tale. All the Captains spoke, even Walst and Trimon, although both said at once that Hurst was a friend. Bulraney’s sword was brought out and the Warlord examined it closely, looking piercingly at Hurst.

“This was your sword originally?”

“It was.”

“How came Bulraney to have it?”

“He took it when I first arrived here.”

After that, the Warlord kept the sword across his knees. He examined Hurst’s knives with interest, but made no comment. He listened gravely to all the testimonies, occasionally asking questions.

It was interesting, Hurst thought, to hear these men, most of them loyal to Bulraney, telling simple unvarnished facts, repeating his own provocative words exactly, and yet in the way they expressed themselves you could hear, clear as a gong, their anger and shock and outrage at Bulraney’s behaviour.

“It was his
battle
sword,” they said, over and over. Or “He had no mail, no helmet.” “He had nothing but his practice sword.” “He
yielded
but he picked up his sword again.”

It was not going to help him, Hurst knew that, nothing could help him, but still it was interesting. Even here, where the law was whatever the man in charge said it was, men still had a strong sense of injustice.

After all had spoken, the Warlord looked at Hurst. “The accused may rise.”

Hurst stood facing him.

“Do you wish to say anything?” the Warlord asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“You admit your guilt?” His tone was level, unsurprised.

“If you mean do I admit that I killed him, close to a hundred people watched me do it, so there’s not much point in denying it, is there?”

“Do you have anything to say in your defence?”

“You’ve heard the story from start to finish from a number of people, and nobody’s said anything I’d take issue with. You know exactly what happened.”

The Warlord looked at him in silence for a long moment.

“Is there anything else you feel you should say?”

Hurst had a suspicion that he was missing something subtle here, perhaps some form of words, an excuse, a justification. Was he supposed to plead for his life? In the end, he simply said, “Such as?”

“An apology, perhaps?”

“I’d say it’s a bit late to apologise to a man after he’s dead.”

“You could apologise to me for killing my best Commander.”

“Was he really?” Hurst said without thinking, too surprised to stop himself. “Because it didn’t seem to me that he was a very good Commander at all.”

There was a rumble from the audience, but the Warlord said curtly, “Explain.”

“Well, firstly,” Hurst said, “he liked to intimidate people, and that’s a strategy that has a bad effect on the men. They have to respect their leader for himself, not just because he bullies them and they’re afraid of reprisals. Secondly, he was unjust. I’ve not been here long, but I’ve seen two separate occasions when he handed out punishment unfairly, without properly investigating what happened. And thirdly…”

He stopped, suddenly reluctant. But he had nothing to lose now, so he went on, “I don’t like to say this of a man I fought beside in battle but he was a coward.” The silence in the room was absolute now. “He should have led his men round the flank, he was ordered to do it, but he handed over responsibility to others and took himself back to a safe point. The manoeuvre was almost lost as a result. It was only the bravery and determination of his men that enabled something to be achieved in the end.”

There was a low murmur around him, and Hurst saw people nodding in agreement, but the Warlord only said, “I remember the events of that day too, very clearly. The accused may sit.”

Hurst did so, and realised his legs were shaking. He had felt quite relaxed in mind, but obviously the strain was telling on him. It crossed his mind that perhaps he was not quite as easy about the prospect of dying as he’d thought.

“This is my judgment,” said the Warlord, and even now his face gave nothing away. An implacable man indeed. “The accused offered provocation to Commander Bulraney, that is undeniable. However, a certain amount of such talk is commonplace during training, as a way of creating tension, of rousing an opponent to a higher level of performance. It is not normally an offence. However, if Commander Bulraney saw it as a problem, he should have dealt with it as a disciplinary matter, with routine punishment. Once he drew his sword, however, his battle sword at that, the issue became a different one. Commander Bulraney himself chose to view the matter as a personal challenge, and drawing his sword confirmed that he accepted the challenge. The accused had no option but to fight. It would be cowardly to do otherwise.”

He paused, looking directly at Hurst, while a low buzz ran round the room and died away, before continuing. “It is therefore clear that the accused, having brought Commander Bulraney to yield, won the challenge. At that point, the accused in fact became the rightful Commander of the Third Section.”

Hurst’s eyebrows shot up.

The Warlord continued relentlessly. “Logically, therefore, when Bulraney picked up his sword and attacked his new Commander, he committed a grave offence. It was a serious lack of discipline in a subordinate, possibly even attempted murder. The accused would have been perfectly justified, at that point, in ordering any means of restraining Bulraney, including immediate execution. That he chose to deal with the matter himself does not negate that right. The accused defended himself against an attack from a junior which threatened his life, and thereby executed a dangerously ill-disciplined warrior under his command, as he was entitled to do. I can see no fault in his actions.”

Hurst was speechless. He had expected death, and a tiny corner of his mind had hoped for some lesser penalty – a flogging, maybe, or banishment to the infamous Supplies – but this was too ridiculous for words. His punishment was to be made Commander in Bulraney’s place! It was quite preposterous. He could tell the assembled warriors thought so too, from the growing noise behind him.

Heddizan was clearly of the same mind. “You can’t be serious!” he burst out.

The Warlord stood up and frowned down at him, Hurst’s sword resting point downwards. Any sensible person would have quailed at that point and drawn back, but Heddizan was not inclined to be sensible. He had been Commander for a matter of days, and now he had lost his position to the man he regarded as a murderer.

“Lord, he killed Bulraney! You can’t make him Commander, it’s not right! If you do this, we’ll have everyone knifing their superiors to get promoted.”

“Captain—?”

“Heddizan, Lord.”

“Well, Captain Heddizan,” he said, his voice crisp as ice, “if you had been paying attention, you would be aware that I did not make anyone Commander. A challenge was issued, albeit informally. ‘I’d like to see you try’ – those were the words. Commander Bulraney could have made light of it, or he could have disciplined the man for his cheek, but he chose instead to accept the challenge, and the result was very clear, was it not?”

“Yes, but
—”

“So salute your new Commander, as is proper.”

Heddizan turned and stared at Hurst, and now that he could see his face he realised it was not anger written there, but disappointment. Something he had wanted had been given to him and was now snatched away, and he looked as mortified as a child who has broken a favourite toy. But he bowed his head to Hurst and resisted the temptation to storm out petulantly.

The Warlord turned back to Hurst.

“Commander, I shall meet you in your office in one hour.”

“My office?”

“Your Captains will show you the way.” And with that he left, still carrying the sword, trailed by his four henchmen, exchanging covert glances.

A cacophony of excited chatter broke out in the room, and Gantor, Walst and Trimon materialised next to Hurst.

“How did you do that?” murmured Gantor. “From certain death to overall command in one bound.”

“Fuck it, I thought my promotion was rapid, but that beats everything!” Walst said, grinning.

“Now we have to call him Sir again,” Trimon said in disgust.

~~~

They gathered in Bulraney’s office on the highest floor of the tower, Hurst, all five Captains and Gantor, who wasn’t invited but tagged along anyway. Hurst supposed he would be able to choose one or two ordinary warriors as runners, so he saw no reason to send him away.