The Plains of Kallanash (26 page)

“That’s not how it works…” he began.

“Why isn’t it?” she said sweetly. “Do you accept the word of the Gods? Have they not decreed that slavery is illegal? I ask, therefore, that you set me free to return to my place in the world, where I belong. My
preference
is to go back to my home, where I lived a dutiful and obedient life until I was seized and brought here against my will.”

There was absolute silence in the room. No one moved.

Bulraney stood up. He was an imposing figure seated, but now he towered over Mia, his face purple with anger.

“What makes you think you’re so special?” he thundered, leaning forward so that he was mere inches from her face. “You think you can come here with your fancy talk about the Gods and slavery and against your will and your place in the world…! Your place in the world! For fuck’s sake, woman, grow up!
This
is your place in the world now, and you can be fucking dutiful and the rest of it, on your back with your legs apart, like every other woman who comes here. You’re not too grand to be sent to Supplies, you know, and see what your precious Gods will do about
that
. Gods… there are no Gods here, just us, so get used to it and learn to do what you’re told.”

He turned and stomped back to his throne, and hurled himself into it.

Mia stood, unmoving, trying to steady her breathing and keep her fear from showing on her face, but her heart was pounding. Yet there was something positive here. This was a man who could break her apart without effort, to whom violence was as natural as breathing, yet he hadn’t struck her. The worst he could threaten her with was to send her to Supplies. She was clearly more valuable to them alive and well. So she calmed her mind as best she could.

“You said I could ask,” she said into the swirling tension of the room. “I have asked.”

“It was just a
saying
,” he muttered, his fists clenching the arm of his chair. “You don’t really have any choice, you know.
I
get to say what happens to you,
I
decide where you go, you can’t stop me.”

“I don’t have to like what you decide.”

“You’re a stupid woman. Here’s the
Warlord
taking an interest in you, and all you can do is spit fire at us all. You women, you get the easiest job in the world, all you have to do is what women are designed to do, that’s not asking much, is it? You can call it slavery if you want, call it whatever you fucking well like, but you’ll do it and not make a fuss about it.”

“Oh, I’ll make a fuss about it.”

Bulraney was about to speak again when the Warlord lifted a hand very slightly. It was no more than a twitch, but Bulraney subsided and the room fell silent. Everyone turned to look at him.

Mia quaked, wondering if she’d gone too far. He hadn’t moved and his grim expression hadn’t altered in the slightest during this exchange. She couldn’t read him at all, and had no idea how he would react. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but it carried throughout the room.

“You do realise that I could take you with one hand spare?” he said, his eyes not leaving her face. “What sort of fuss could you possibly make that would have any effect?”

“I could scream.”

“That would be annoying, but it wouldn’t stop me.”

“No, but you’d be in no doubt that I was unwilling.”

For a long moment they stared at each other, Mia defiant, the Warlord inscrutable. She waited, breath held, to hear her fate. Would they send her to the infamous Supplies? Would they cut off a hand or a foot as punishment, as some of the Petty Kings were reputed to do? Or her tongue, perhaps, for her insolence? Would they have her killed, horribly, painfully? She realised, to her surprise, that she was too angry to care much.

The Warlord turned to Bulraney. “I’ll take her,” he said. “I like a woman with a bit of spirit.”

“You’re welcome to her,” Bulraney said with feeling. “And when the screeching gets too much, send her back to me and I’ll shut her mouth for her.”

There was laughter then, the tension dissipated, and Mia heard the noise echoing half way down the stairs as she was led, bemused, back to the basement.

Hurst never had any trouble getting to sleep. His leg had bothered him for a while when they first entered the tunnel, because of all the walking, but he always carried something for the pain. When that ran out, he found he could tolerate the constant aching quite well.

Even the darkness didn’t bother him anymore. His eyes had adjusted, and it was rarely completely dark anyway, not here, right at the end of their journey. Golden sunlight from the Godstower flooded the tunnel, and even the lesser light of a cloudy day, or the weak silver of the moon, now almost gone, w
as enough for him. And away down the tunnel was the distant glimmer which marked the domain of the barbarians. So when it was his turn to rest, he could lie down and be asleep instantly. He never dreamed, either. He woke refreshed, even after only a couple of hours.

But when he was awake, particularly when it was his turn to stand watch, he found himself prey to all sorts of strange thoughts. It was not the tunnel which bothered him, for he had long since assimilated all the little noises of the rats and perhaps other creatures in the lower part, the steady breathing of the other three, the creaks when one turned over, the occasional whispers of voices from further down the tunnel, the water gurgling constantly beneath them. He shut them out, knowing he would be instantly alert if anything changed, if something unusual appeared in the mixture.

No, it was all the things he could do nothing about. He thought about Mia and wondered where she was, if she was well, what was happening to her. Was she with the barbarians? His heart was cold at the prospect. And if Mia had survived her apparent death, maybe Tella and Jonnor had. Perhaps they too had travelled down these tunnels and were amongst the barbarians.

He worried, too, about their dwindling food supply, and whether they would run out before anyone came past. He tried to imagine what would happen, in fact, if anyone did come by. Would they calmly open the gate for them? Would it come to swords and knives down here in the gloom?

Sometimes his mind wandered to the Karninghold, what they made of his absence, if his father had arrived and whether Hemmond had managed to tell him where they had gone.

Most of all, he worried about his friends who had followed him blindly on this foolish journey, trusting his judgment and, perhaps, about to die because of that. Had he made a terrible mistake? Maybe Trimon had been right after all.

They fell into a routine, of sorts. The light from the Godstower delineated day and night for them, so they kept to a strict schedule marked by three small meals at the proper times, as well as they could judge what that was. They stayed awake during the day, and slept at night. Every third day they lit the brazier and heated water to wash with, both themselves and their clothes, and to cook a single pot of stew with the dwindling supply of dried meat and vegetables and grains. They didn’t bother to shave.

Walst instituted a training program to keep them fit, running up and down the tunnel between the gates each afternoon and practising sword moves, although they never dared risk the noise of actual combat. Clashing swords would indubitably attract the attention of the barbarians, although Walst wasn’t even sure of that. “They’re really
loud
down there,” he said more than once. “I think there are more of them than there used to be.” It was not reassuring.

There was still a lot of time to sit around and contemplate their situation. The others had not yet reached Hurst’s state of fatalism, and even Trimon, who grumbled most, talked about what they would do when they escaped. It was in fact their primary topic of conversation
– recalling everything they knew about the barbarians and their practices, and trying to work out what approach to take when they finally bumped into one.

Hurst was all for simply introducing themselves and asking to speak to the leader, but the others thought all that would get them was a chest full of arrows, or a sword in the gut. They went all round the subject, without reaching a conclusion, but in the end it would be up to Hurst to make whatever move he deemed fit; he was the Karningholder
; their job was merely to follow his commands. It simplified things.

Gantor had not given up hope of finding a way to open the gates. He was convinced the marks on the wall nearby were instructions
– a code, perhaps – to allow the gate to be opened without a lever. He had three sets of marks to examine now, for they were trapped by three separate gates. One was a short way back up the tunnel they had come from, one blocked access to the Godstower and the third was down the tunnel near the barbarians’ light. Whenever there was enough light from the Godstower, he stood for hours in front of the nearby walls examining the marks there carefully, running his long fingers over the indentations carved in the stone, looking for inspiration.

“Is the wall speaking to you yet?” Hurst said one day.

“No, it’s frustrating. It looks a bit like Kannick Old Script – you know, the one that has all the dots. But it’s a modified version.”

“Isn’t there a new Kannick as well?” Hurst said, dredging up long-forgotten scraps from the scholars.

“Yes, yes, Kannick
Revised
Script, but that’s completely different,” Gantor said impatiently. “It’s virtually the same as Middle Kashinorian, all straight lines. Kannick
Old
Script is nothing but dots, but look, there are curved lines mixed in with this. Just a few, but it’s very confusing.”

“These lower bits are all dots,” Hurst said helpfully.

Gantor shot him a look of amusement. “Thank you, Most Learned. What would I do without you to point out the blindingly obvious? Actually, I think they’re all numbers, these dots at the bottom. I’m not totally sure, because I can’t quite remember what the squashed dots mean, but these are obvious – that’s two, and that’s five, see?”

“That’s just the number of dots.”

“Well, yes. And over on the other wall, there’s a couple of threes. But I can’t remember how it goes beyond five.”

“Well, six would be six dots, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe it’s like the Herramish number system,” Trimon said, coming up behind them. “They count in fives – one, two, three, four, blob, blob one, blob two… and so on.”

“Gods, of course!” Gantor punched the air. “It’s a duodecimal system. How could I forget that!”

“Of course, so obvious,” Hurst said dryly. “It’s a what system?”

“Duo… oh, never mind. They counted in twelves. And they had a symbol for six, which is what the squashed dot must be. So
that
is a nine, and that there is eleven. Ha!”

“Well, now, that
is
helpful,” Trimon said sarcastically. “We’ll be out of here in no time, I feel sure. But if you’ve finished counting dots, it’s time for the noon meal. Do you think it’s noon? I think it’s noon.”

~~~

About two weeks after they found themselves trapped at the tunnel’s end, they had visitors. They had eaten their last, rather inadequate, meal of the day and were sitting in the near-dark wondering what was happening back at the Karning, and whether Bernast had been allowed to resume the skirmishes without Hurst around, and joking about how bad the results might be by the time they got home. They were not bothering to keep their voices down, so it was a shock when Walst suddenly raised a hand.

“Hush a minute. I heard something.”

There was instant silence. At first they could hear nothing, straining to catch some other sound above the noise of their own breathing and the gurgling water, which was loud and rushing at the moment. But then, clear as a gong, the sound of voices, and too loud to be the barbarians far down the tunnel. Walst reached for his sword.

Since they had no torch burning and the brazier was out, the door to the cave had been left open, but there was no tell-tale flickering of light from the tunnel, nor was there the distinctive rumble of carts. Only the voices, and the sound of boots on stone and the occasional thump or rattle. Whoever the newcomers were, they were not trying to be quiet.

Hurst poked his head quickly out of the doorway, but could see nothing moving in either direction. Then, as they waited in silence, more boots, more talking and the voices were closer now.

“… flat down here, lads. Pass that down, Fennis. Oof, careful, will you? Come on, come on, we need to get settled before dark.”

“Godstower!” whispered Gantor.

Very stealthily Hurst crept out of the cave, and up the tunnel a short way. Still nothing to be seen in either direction. From out here, though, it was clear that Gantor was right
– there were men in the Godstower, and coming down the stairs.

He signalled for Gantor to join him, and they stood either side of the entrance to the side tunnel that led to the Godstower. From there, the voices were very clear. It sounded as if these men, whoever they were, had stationed themselves in the large space at the bottom of the tower, just out of sight.

Signalling Gantor to stay back in the tunnel, Hurst crept into the side tunnel and as far along it as the gate. Beyond it, there were no lights, just the sounds of men settling down and opening packs as they chatted. After a while, the distinctive sound of a flask being uncorked, and the glug of liquid down one throat after another.

“That’s better,” a voice said.

“Told you, didn’t I?” said another. “Once we’re shut up in the basement, there’s not a drop of ale until afterwards.”

“Or women,” said a third.

“We’ll just have to fight over the old woman, then.”

“No, not even her. They lock ‘em all away, even the crones from the kitchen. So we’ll have one more night of sweet dreams before we get herded in with all the others. Pass it back, will you?”

“How long will it be? Before… you know…” A young voice, nervous.

“First time in battle, eh? A while, a week maybe. Then a day of marching and a day of fun.”

“Don’t worry, lad.” A deeper voice, older. “Stay close to us, we’ll get you through it. They’re cowards, you know, they turn and run as soon as you push them.”

“What is this place, then? Is it a back way into the basement?”

“No, no, you can’t get in from here, there’s a gate that doesn’t open. Want to see it?”

Hurst had just time to scramble back to the main tunnel and out of sight before the voices got closer, and they could hear the gate being rattled. Gantor had his sword out now, but Hurst was confident the visitors couldn’t open the gate. So they were safe from them, but equally there would be no opportunity to escape that way.

For a while, as the men in the Godstower chatted and drank, Hurst and his Companions took it in turns to creep into the side tunnel to listen to their conversation. Gradually, as full darkness fell, they became silent, and in time snores could be heard. It was a strange feeling discovering that the barbarians were preparing for a major battle without being able to do anything at all about it.

The next morning as soon as the sun rose the visitors packed up and left, and the four Skirmishers were alone again. But now when they crept down the tunnel to the next gate, they could hear a constant drone from further on, the noise of a great many men gathered together. From time to time they even caught glimpses of people in the tunnel itself, although some distance away.

“How many of them will there be, do you think?” asked Trimon, who had never been in battle.

“A thousand, maybe,” Hurst shrugged. “Bit more. I never saw more than two thousand, but usually less. They do a lot of small scale stuff, fifty or a hundred, two hundred at most. I imagine it must be more difficult for them to organise themselves.”

“How so?”

“They’re barbarians, aren’t they?”

“We call them that,” Gantor said, “but they could be just as organised as us.”

“Well, organised or not, they’re no fighters,” Hurst said. “They’re a rabble, like animals with swords. No discipline at all. We can usually beat them easily, even when they outnumber us two to one. If we have anything close to parity, we can scuttle them in minutes.”

“That just means they’ve had no proper training. They’re brave enough, actually. If they had a few decent Skirmishers to train them, we’d have a lot more trouble.”

“Well, it’s lucky they don’t have any Skirmishers, then,” Hurst said.

Gantor just grunted, and looked at him sideways.

“Oh, come on, out with it,” Hurst said with a grin.

“Hasn’t it crossed your mind,” Gantor said slowly, “that Jonnor may have passed down these tunnels only a few months ago? With his Companions. Jonnor wasn’t the world’s best Skirmisher, but he was handy enough with a sword, and very good on the training grounds.”

They were all thoughtful after that.

~~~

To pass the time, Hurst used the remaining chalks to draw a gameboard on the ground in the cave, and with odd pebbles and broken bits of used torches they fashioned enough playing pieces to construct simple games.

“Waste of chalk,” Trimon muttered. “Never know how much we might need.”

“We won’t need any more,” Hurst said. “We’ve got as far as we’re going, it seems to me, and really, we hardly needed it in the first place. It’s not as if we had any choices to make, there was only ever one option to take at any of the junctions.”