The Plains of Kallanash (29 page)

“Here you are!” he said cheerfully, kicking Hurst’s exposed leg. “Been looking all over for you lot, and here you are sleeping in the middle of the afternoon!”

“Lucky you recognised us then,” Hurst said, grinning.

“Well, you’re the only people here with decent boots. Come on, bring your gear, let’s get you out of this cesspit. Oh, and Bulraney wants to see you.”

“Who is Bulraney, exactly?” Hurst said innocently, strapping his sword on his back.

“You really haven’t been processed properly, have you? He’s the Commander here.”

Ainsley led them up stairs, along corridors and then up many more stairs, up and up, until eventually they came out in the highest room in the highest tower.

“I found them, Commander! Here they are!”

Bulraney was a big, ugly brute, Hurst thought, and not a man of reason or common sense, that much was obvious. Hurst knew instinctively that he had to be careful with this one.

“What happened to your guide?” were his first words.

“I couldn’t say,” Hurst said noncommittally.

“Usually they ring the bell.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. We’ve not done this before, we don’t know what the usual procedure is. We just got swept up in the crowds.” And that part was true enough, he thought.

“Ainsley says you’re proper Skirmishers. That true?”

“It is.”

“They let you keep all your gear? Never seen that before. What’s so special about you, then?”

Hurst just shrugged.

“Let’s have a look, then.”

Hurst hesitated, seeing for the first time where this was going. He felt, rather than saw, Gantor inch his hand fractionally nearer the largest knife in his belt. There were three other men in the room alongside Bulraney, and behind him were Ainsley and his two men. That was seven against the four of them, which was just about feasible, but it would be messy and the room was cluttered with chairs, a couple of tables and some cupboards. No room to swing a sword or prime a bow.

“Your sword, Skirmisher,” Bulraney said, more sharply.

Hurst drew the sword from the scabbard on his back and offered the hilt to Bulraney. It looked just like a regular Skirmisher sword, the only distinction being the three jewels on the hilt to symbolise his Karning. He hoped Bulraney wouldn’t appreciate the significance of that. Gantor rested his hand on his knife.

“Well, this is very nice,” Bulraney said. “Very good condition. Nice leather grip here. Better than the worn old rubbish we usually get. And it’s pretty. I’ll have this.”

“As you wish,” Hurst said easily. “I suppose I’ll be able to get another one somewhere? Wouldn’t want to go into battle unarmed.”

Bulraney laughed. “Stores might have one or two left. What about the rest?”

Hurst laid out all his knives and a couple of small axes, but they were standard issue, and Bulraney quickly lost interest in them. It was lucky he was too big to wear any of their clothing.

“Well, Skirmisher,” he said, eyeing Hurst up and down speculatively, “you’ll be handy to have on our side in battle, I daresay. Ainsley says he wants you, all four of you, but he’s got no room for you just now. Daresay there’ll be a few vacancies afterwards. So you’ll go in his reserve just now, and we’ll arrange something more permanent for you when you come back.
If
you come back. Take them away, Ainsley.”

Ainsley took them back downstairs, outside again and across the compound to the low building.

“This is the Section House,” he said. “Food through there – you’ll hear the gong. If you’re late, you’ll miss it. Women up those stairs, evenings only, except after battle, you just queue for your turn. Oh, and don’t do anything they object to, Warlord’s real tough on that. Flogging for a first complaint, castration for the second. They’re not there at the moment, though – shut away till afterwards. Got to motivate the men a bit. Carsi’s down that way. Right, my lot are in these four rooms here. You’ll be in this one.”

He opened the furthest door, to reveal a large dusty room cluttered with discarded clothing, bits of armour, mail and weapons. There were six thin mattresses against the walls. Two men, half dressed, lay on two of them.

“You two, get all this stuff out of here, find somewhere else to sleep. Kelliman, Tronnet, move your gear in here. You can look after our new arrivals. I’m afraid there’s no spare blankets at the moment.”

Hurst looked around at the mattresses, the open windows allowing in a slight breeze and the smell-free space. “Oh, I think we’ll manage just fine.”

They waited in silence until all the comings and goings had subsided, then Ainsley shut the door.

“Right. Some things you should be aware of. Bulraney may look like an ox, but he’s not stupid, and neither am I. Nobody
–
nobody
– comes through the tunnel with their own gear. Just doesn’t happen. So you got here some other way. My guess is you’re a spy, sent by
them
to find out our strengths and weaknesses, so your plan is to have a good look round and then vanish again. I can’t stop you looking round, but Kelliman and Tronnet here are going to stay with you to make sure there’s no vanishing. Understand? And when we go into battle, you’ll go with us. Any sign of vanishing, any question about whose side you’re on, you’ll be dead meat. Is this clear?”

“Perfectly,” Hurst said.

On the third night on the plains, they camped within sight of the Sixth Section, and they came to the eastern gate by mid-morning. Again people came out to meet the Warlord, and this time it was more than a routine matter. Mia could see their agitation, and having seen how stoical these men typically were, she guessed it was a serious matter.

The Warlord rode back from the gate to where Mia waited.

“There is some business I must deal with, and it could take a while, so we will stop here for now. Dennistor, Jandron, take care of Cassia. Find her a private room in the guardhouse here, somewhere she can rest. Make sure she has food. And a carsi. I hope to be finished by mid-afternoon, but I’ll send word if I’m delayed any longer.”

In the end, it was no more than a couple of hours before the Warlord returned, and their party reformed and rode out through the gates. Instead of turning north again, however, they rode straight on with the sinking sun at their backs. This time, the pace was faster and Mia had trouble keeping up. Twice they had to stop for her to catch up. The Warlord’s face was a mask, but she imagined he was displeased. After that she urged her horse to a little more speed, although it made her nervous to go so fast.

It was almost dark when they arrived at the Warlord’s quarters. Mia was rather disappointed by it. The style was the same as the other barbarian settlements, with a walled compound, outbuildings and a tower, but it was much smaller and not nearly imposing enough, she thought, for the overall leader of so many men. The main building was composed of only three small towers, the tallest about half as high as Bulraney’s.

She was pleased to find that her new home was to be the topmost floor. Unlike Bulraney’s, it was divided into two rooms, a larger one with a big table and many chairs, and a smaller one, with a low bed, a couple of chests and what looked like a writing desk with the lid closed. There was a small water room as well.

“This is my room, where you’ll sleep,” the Warlord said. “There’s only the one bed, so it’s that or the floor. You’ll find gowns in that box over there. You’ll need to take them in a bit, I expect. You’ll get sewing things from the old woman in the basement. You’re to keep this room and next door and the carsi clean and tidy, wash my clothes and your own, fetch food or drink if you’re asked to. You understand? And
– the rest of it.” He gestured towards the bed. “But you know about that part.”

Mia moved to the window, but there was little to see in the dusk. Her eye was caught by something, and she was amazed to see her own reflection. A mirror! Even in the poor light, she could see how gaunt she had become, with shadows below deep-set eyes. Then she saw something else, the dark stain on her neck. The mark of the Gods. She turned a little to see it better, gently touched it.

“It will fade in time,” he said, “but it will never go altogether. We all have one. It marks us as criminals.”

“I’m not a criminal,” she said, turning to him with sudden passion. “I’ve never done anything wrong, never broken the rules. I’ve always done what I was supposed to, always! It’s not fair!”

“No,” he said seriously. “I don’t suppose it is.”

It was late, so food was brought up for her from the kitchens far beneath. The Warlord disappeared, leaving her alone. She sat at the big table and ate a little, but it was a heavy stew and sat uncomfortably in her belly tonight.

She went back into the bedroom and looked at the bed. It was large, and soft too, as she discovered when she tentatively tried it out. Yet it was a bigger step than she felt ready for. She supposed it would have to happen eventually, she could see no way out of it, but simply getting into his bed seemed like total surrender, even if she screamed. And she wasn’t sure she would be able to scream, for all her bravado in front of Bulraney and his men.

So in the end, she took a rug and a couple of spare blankets and her cloak, and made a bed on the floor between the two boxes. There she curled up and tried to sleep. For hours she lay, terrified to move, in the darkness. When eventually she heard his tread outside and then the door opening, she shut her eyes and pretended to sleep. She heard him moving around the room, gradually shedding garments, then the creak of the bed and not long afterwards, gentle snoring noises. And sometime close to dawn, exhausted, she fell asleep.

~~~

She was woken by the sun shining straight into her eyes. She had slept late, for it was clearly mid-morning. She jumped up and then winced, for she was stiff and sore from sleeping on the floor.

Looking out of the window, the whole plain to the east was spread out before her. To the north were thundery clouds, but here the sun still shone. She could see the dark shapes of kishorn moving placidly to the south, and a couple of hares were lolloping across the compound. After her confinement underground, it was pure pleasure to have such a view. She was still a prisoner, but she supposed there would always be moments like this, when there was some small reward for being alive.

She heard voices next door. The Warlord and his men discussing
– well, whatever they had to discuss. The water room was across a small corridor from the bedroom, where she washed as best she could and wished, not for the first time, for the easy availability of hot water. She rummaged through the box for clean trousers, but there were only gowns in it, so she put on clean underthings and then put her grubby riding clothes back on, and a scarf to cover her hair.

When she opened the door to the next room, the men instantly fell silent. The Warlord was there, of course, and several others.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked politely, with no hint of deeper meaning. His face gave nothing away.

“Thank you, yes,” she replied. “Longer than I should have done, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve worn her out already, Dethin,” someone said, but he quelled the speaker with a look. Even they were afraid of him, she realised.

“Jandrion, take Cassia downstairs and show her where she can get some food. She might like to meet the other women, too. They can show her around. And Cassia
– sort yourself out a gown. It’s better for the women to wear gowns.”

Mia soon discovered she had the run of the whole compound. Unlike Third Section, most of it was above ground, and only the old woman’s domain, some storage rooms and the water tubs were in the basement, either side of the tunnel which ran here.

The water tubs were a great discovery. At Third Section, there was only a single vat of water which could be heated, and then dispensed into large sinks for the washing of clothes. People, it seemed, had no need for large scale washing, and were allowed only ewers of hot water. But the Warlord had a better system. There were two vats, heated from the same fire, which produced enough hot water for laundry sinks and a couple of dented metal bathing tubs, and every afternoon the women of the house went down there and took turns to bathe. It seemed to Mia now like unimaginable luxury.

The women were another small pleasure in her strange new life. There were three of them, whose job was to service all the men of the compound other than the Warlord. There were thirty
-one men altogether, nineteen Captains and twelve others who tended the horses, kept the stores or worked in the kitchens, but four of them preferred men, and most of the others chose to ride to the Sixth Section for their relaxation, where the ale flowed more freely. Even so, the women spent few nights alone in their own beds, and even grumbled occasionally that they would be better off in one of the Section Houses. There were more men to see to, but all such activities took place in rooms set aside for the purpose, after which they could retreat to the privacy of their own room. They didn’t envy Mia her position as the Warlord’s woman – “You never get away from them, when it’s exclusive like that,” they said. “They own you, body and soul.”

The Warlord didn’t yet own Mia’s body, and she began to wonder whether he ever would. He had made no comment about her sleeping arrangements, and on the one occasion when they happened to go to bed at the same time, he’d said mildly, “The bed is more comfortable, you know.” But she gave no response, and he had made no protest.

Usually he came to bed after her and rose before her, moving in silence around the room as he dressed. She was usually awake anyway, but she treasured those extra moments alone with her own thoughts. Sometimes when he was turned away from her she watched him covertly, closing her eyes quickly if he turned back towards her.

She supposed he was handsome, although in a dark, brooding way. He was taller and more muscular than Jonnor, and better proportioned than Hurst, but sometimes when he looked at her there was a coldness in his eyes that scared her. His back was criss-crossed with scars, from a bad flogging, she supposed, or maybe more than one. Perhaps that coldness was just his way of dealing with a difficult life.

Most mornings he trained with his men, but then he bathed and changed, and after the noon meal usually retired to the bedroom for the stillness. He didn’t sleep, but lay stretched out on the bed, eyes closed, hands behind his head. The first time Mia found him there, she assumed he was asleep and went to curl up on her own little bed.

After a moment, he said, “You don’t have to pretend to be asleep. I’m not going to rape you in the middle of the afternoon.”

She uncurled, and sat up, arranging a blanket behind her head on the wall. “When are you going to rape me, then?” Almost immediately, she regretted it, and for the first time she detected real anger in his voice as he replied.

“I will
never
rape you, Cassia. But someone will, unless you quickly come to terms with the way things work here.”

And as she often did when she had no other answer, she said quietly, “My name is Mia.”

The stillness soon became her favourite time of day. He didn’t mind her talking to him, she discovered, so she asked him all the questions burning in her mind. Mostly he gave her no answers, and he absolutely refused to talk about his own past or what crimes had brought him there, but some things he seemed happy to tell her – of the nine Sections under his command, the exploits of his men, the battles they had fought for him, their skills with bow and blade and axe. But he rarely talked about himself.

One day she asked him how the women came to be assigned. “Is it Bulraney who gets the final say, or is it you?”

“Oh, in Third Section it’s Bulraney, certainly,” he answered. “He has the tunnel there, so he gets whatever comes through it, men and women.”

“So there isn’t a tunnel at every Section, then?”

“No, but there are quite a few of them. In my Sections, Third, Sixth and Ninth have them, and there are others elsewhere. Sixth is the best one, because it has the resupply. More men come through the tunnel to Sixth than any of the others, for some reason, so it’s the prestige one to have. Third has had a good run lately, but usually Sixth is better, which is why the Commander of Sixth is always next in line to be Warlord.”

“So that’s how you came to be Warlord? You were Commander of Sixth?” He didn’t answer. “So how do you get to be a Commander?” Again he didn’t answer, so she tried a different approach. “How did Bulraney get to be Commander of Third?”

“Fought for it. Fought the previous Commander. Single combat.”

“To the death?” she asked, remembering some of the stories she’d read about the Petty Kingdoms.

“We’re not savages, you know. Can’t afford to kill our own. Single combat with swords to the point of submission. We have to have leaders who can fight, someone the men respect. The Captains do it too, for ranking. Then the First Captain takes over from the Commander when he’s killed or maimed.”

He spoke without any emotion at all, and she wondered how often such things happened, and what the expected lifespan of a Commander was. Or a Warlord.

“So if Bulraney assigns the women who come through his tunnel, how was it that you got to take me?”

“Bulraney sent word to me, thought I might be interested, since you’re a Higher. It was a courtesy, he didn’t have to.”

She was puzzled. “So you have a taste for high ranking women, is that it?”

He sat up suddenly, and moved back to sit against the wall, and for a moment she thought she’d made him angry again. But there was that glimmer in his eyes again, a twinkle that might have been amusement.

“Bulraney thought I might get along better with you than he would.”

She said nothing, frowning, trying to work out what her rank had to do with anything. But his next words astonished her.

“I was a Higher too, Mia. Once, a lifetime ago.”

But he would say nothing more about it. She didn’t care, she was exultant. He had used her real name! After that, he often did, but only when they were alone. It felt like progress. It almost felt as if he were a friend.

~~~

But not long afterwards she realised that it was all an illusion. She had been at the Warlord’s House for a little over two weeks and in all that time he had not pressured her to sleep with him. She knew it would have to happen eventually, but part of her actually wanted him to force her, so that she didn’t have to make the choice herself.

Each day she would think to herself – perhaps tonight – and each evening she crept into her corner between the two boxes, quite unable to offer herself freely to a man who was not her husband, who didn’t even pretend to have any feelings for her. She told herself a thousand times that he was just like a husband, it was how things worked among these people, that she had to get used to their ways, that anything was better than Bulraney and his lewd Captains, but still she couldn’t do it. And a little corner of her mind told her that each day she refused him was another day she was safe, another day when she was something better than a whore, another day of hope that eventually he would learn to respect her wishes.