The Plains of Kallanash (31 page)

“What’s the signal?” Trimon asked, and then, “Oh – looks like we’re going already. Catch them unprepared, eh?”

“They’re prepared,” said Gantor, lowering his visor.

To their right, a group had already begun to move forward, slowly at first, then gathering speed. Up and down the line voices were raised in the time-honoured battle-cries. More groups began to move forward. A few arrows flew.

“Too short,” Trimon said disapprovingly.

“At a walk!” Ainsley shouted, signalling with his sword. Further along, the other Captains were leading their men forward. As they moved off, Hurst saw Bulraney striding in front, an imposing figure with Hurst’s sword raised before him, shouting, red-faced, urging everyone on. As they drew nearer to the enemy, he caught another glimpse of him at the rear. Leading from behind, was his last thought before turning to face the enemy. All around was the clash of sword against shield, the shouts of warriors, the screams of horses and somewhere in the distance the curling notes of a piper. Then there was nothing in his head but the struggle for survival.

Hurst soon realised that the fiercest fighting was to left and right of them. Ahead, it seemed that Mannigor was reluctant to engage them, and after a brief flurry had drawn back to regroup. He noticed Kelliman and Tronnet close behind.

“You following us? We’re still here, you see,” he grinned at them. “Haven’t vanished yet.”

“We were told to stay close to you,” Tronnet said, “and as it happens, that seems to be the safest place to be. He’s good,” he added, nodding at Trimon. “Hasn’t missed yet.”

“Missed one,” Trimon said, his hands full of retrieved arrows. “Bugger moved. They’re coming back, everyone.”

This time Mannigor had obviously decided to show his men how it should be done, for he was urging his horse to a gallop, leaving the rest behind. He was heading straight for Hurst’s group, sword raised.

“Mine!” Hurst shouted, and as the others scuttled aside he stood calmly, sword down, waiting.

Mannigor swung his sword, but Hurst ducked under it at the last moment, then stood again and, turning, clouted the horse’s rear with the spikes on his mailed glove. The horse reared and came crashing down.

Mannigor, to his credit, rolled away and came up swinging. There was a brief clash of swords, before Hurst nicked his opponent’s shoulder on his swordarm. With a cry, Mannigor dropped his sword and fell to his knees, and Hurst had a sword at his throat.

It would have been the work of an instant to do it
– a single thrust and it would have been over. How many times had he done it before? How many barbarians had he killed without a second thought, and celebrated their deaths later with wine, congratulating himself on his skill? But he looked into Mannigor’s terrified eyes and saw himself as he once was. How old was the boy – sixteen, seventeen, perhaps? Not much more than a child. Rash, unthinking, foolish, perhaps, but did he deserve to die for that?

Hurst bent down to him, and flicked open the boy’s visor.

“Go home,” he said, “and tell them Hurst Arrakas let you live.”

The boy’s eyes widened. Hurst backed away as three of Mannigor’s fellows reached him and dismounted. Two bent down to help Mannigor, but the third looked straight at Hurst. His hand moved for a knife at his belt, and before he so much as touched it, Trimon put an arrow to his throat.

With Mannigor gone, his men were in disarray, some fighting still, some retreating, some joining in with neighbouring groups. For Hurst, it meant a lull and a chance to look around. There was no time to rest, though, for there were fallen men scattered about the battlefield. It was a good chance to get them into the hands of the haulers, as they were known, those men too old or unable to fight who were charged with getting the injured to safety, and retrieving the dead.

Bulraney reappeared, shouting at them to do what they were already doing. Then the Warlord came galloping up.

“Commander!” he called to Bulraney. “We have a good chance to break through their lines here. I want you to push forward as hard as you can, then try to outflank their troops to the south. Squeeze them down to those trees there. Fourth will try to turn them to the north, into the swamp. Got that? Right.”

Ainsley and the other Captains hastily got their groups reorganised. Hurst could see the point of the strategy, for there was a clear gap ahead of them, but he whispered urgently to Ainsley, “Don’t get too close to the walls. They have bowmen all the way along.”

Ainsley nodded his acknowledgement. Then they were moving forward, and to the north, Fourth was moving too. At first, Bulraney was in front of them, leading the way. Then the enemy caught sight of them. Hurst saw Draylinor shouting orders, his Commanders galloping off to warn their men, and suddenly they were heading into a solid and determined defence, not a gap at all.

Bulraney stopped. “We’re vulnerable at the rear,” he shouted. “I’m going to cover the defence.” And with that he and his henchmen strode back through the lines. The Third visibly hesitated at the retreat of their Commander.

“Forward!” shouted Ainsley, but Hurst could see the sudden nervousness in the men.

Not far away Mannigor’s horse was standing, unhurt, but with the dangling reins caught on a bramble. Hurst dashed across and in a moment was in the saddle.

“Men of the Third – forward!” he shouted, sword raised, and turned and rode towards the enemy. He heard shouts behind him, spears clashed against shields, and dozens of voices suddenly lifted in song. They were with him! Ainsley and another Captain drew alongside, and then he saw Gantor, also mounted, and the battlesong lifted his spirits and carried them all forward.

“Charge!” he screamed, forgetting that he was not in command, and they heard him and charged, shrieking their rage and defiance. Faster they moved, faster, visors closed, heads down, bearing down on the massed ranks ahead. And then the line dissolved in front of them, as the enemy turned and ran.

Hurst felt far more comfortable in the saddle, and the horse under him was Skirmisher trained, and responded instantly to his will, turning almost before he had the thought. For a while it was easy, riding here and there, chasing down the enemy one by one. If they turned and ran, he let them go, but if they raised sword or spear against him, he cut them down without hesitation. Weakness was fatal on the battlefield.

Gradually they pushed the Karningers further back and round to the south. To his left, the South Eastern Sections, who had fallen back quite a long way, began to fight back, and the enemy was in disarray, in full retreat, turning to flee through the trees.

Hurst pulled up, reluctant to pursue them mercilessly. He saw the Warlord not far off, his sword out, dripping with blood, but he had also stopped and was simply watching. He looked across at Hurst, then he nodded to him, one warrior to another, before wheeling round and riding off.

Gantor came cantering up. “This is better, eh?” he grinned, slapping the horse’s neck. “But look, they’re too close to the walls.”

Some of the Third and most of the Fourth had been carried by the force of their charge within bowshot range of the walls.

Hurst galloped across to them. “Back! Back!” he shouted.

Even as they responded to his cries, arrows began to fly from the walls, and a few men dropped. The rest fled, pulling back out of range. But then a new cry went up: “Fire! Fire!” Flaming arrows were landing nearby, and the dry grass began to smoulder in places.

“Oh, don’t tempt me,” Trimon murmured, then he looked up at Hurst. “May I? They started it after all.”

“Most of their men are out here,” Gantor put in, reining in alongside. “And it would be a useful distraction.”

“Very well,” Hurst said, “if you can hit something without getting too close.”

Trimon looked offended at this insult to his ability, and dashed off to retrieve a still burning arrow. For a while they protected him while he collected one after another and sent them back over the walls. The wind was with him, and before long drifts of smoke could be seen rising from within the fort, and then alarms were sounding in several places.

“Time to go,” Hurst said.

The battle was all but over. To the north the Karningers were retreating in a more or less orderly fashion, but to the south it was a rout. The Warlord came past ordering the retreat, and gradually the two lines disentangled themselves.

Hurst dismounted to help with the task of aiding the injured, and Bulraney reappeared, grabbed the horse and rode up and down issuing orders. Hurst could see the jewelled hilt of his own sword hanging from Bulraney’s belt. He wondered whether it had seen any action that day, or had simply been waved about over Bulraney’s head.

The four of them, still trailed by Kelliman and Tronnet, were moving slowly away from the fort, spotting the dead and injured, and calling for haulers, when Trimon pointed at a fallen horse.

“There’s someone under there,” he said, “still moving, I think.”

“It’s one of theirs,” Tronnet said. “We can leave it for them to deal with.”

“They won’t notice him from where they are,” Hurst said. “He could die out here.”

“Why do we care about that?”

Hurst just raised his eyebrows and went closer. “Walst, give me a hand with this horse. Gantor, see if you can drag him out from underneath.” They struggled for a while, but eventually they got enough of the horse lifted to pull the victim clear. He screamed, and they could all see that one leg was badly crushed.

“I’ll finish him off, shall I?” Tronnet said, drawing his sword. “It would be a kindness.”

“Bad idea. Besides, it’s only his leg, by the Gods,” Hurst said in sudden anger.

“He’s covered in blood, he must be bad.”

“That’s probably from the horse. Gantor, your flask.” He gently removed the soldier’s helmet, and lifting his head, trickled water into his mouth.

The man’s eyes opened. “Leg hurts…” he whispered.

“It’s all right, the surgeons will sort you out, Draylinor,” Hurst said. “You’ll be riding again in no time. A bad leg’s no hindrance, believe me. I’ll just get you some help.” He gently laid him down on the grass again. “Don’t let anyone slit his throat,” he said to Gantor and strode off.

Off in the distance he could see a mounted Karninger systematically trawling through the bodies scattered across the battlefield.

“Hoy, Commander!” he shouted, waving at them. “Over here!”

It took several attempts before the rider heard and cantered across.

“What is it, Commander?” His eyes flicked from the insignia on Hurst’s clothing to his face and back again. He took in Hurst’s beard, then his battered sword, lack of a horse and the barbarians at his back, and frowned, puzzled.

“One of yours!” Hurst shouted, pointing, backing away as the rider drew near. “Needs help!”

Kelliman and Tronnet moved either side of him, blades drawn. The Karninger looked warily at them, then gently rested a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Hurst said, “my best bowman is watching your every move.”

Then the man suddenly saw Draylinor lying on the ground, and with an exclamation of dismay dismounted and ran across to him. Hurst was forgotten. They all withdrew to a safe distance, but within moments Ainsley had ridden up.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

Before Hurst could answer the Warlord rode up with his four juniors. He was not visibly angry and his voice was level, but he stared unsmilingly at Hurst.

“That one was in our territory, warrior, ours to kill. Why did you not do so?” His eyes were coldly implacable.

“Firstly,” Hurst said calmly, “because he is a Karningholder.”

“So?”

“There are always reprisals for a dead Karningholder. They will come for us with fire and bloody retribution to avenge one of their own. Not necessarily this week or this month, but they will come.”

The Warlord’s eyes never left Hurst’s face, but whatever he felt, his emotions were under control. “Secondly?”

“Secondly, there is now one man who understands that we are not savages.”

“Two men,” he said coldly. “This one and the one you spared earlier. Two men who live to fight again.”

“True. But we’re
not
savages,” Hurst said. “Are we?”

The Warlord made no answer, but wheeled his horse and rode off, raising a dust cloud in his wake, as his acolytes struggled to keep pace with him.

Tronnet audibly exhaled. “Phew! I thought we were in big trouble then.”

“Well,” said Walst. “He’s a cheery fellow and no mistake.”

Hurst looked around for a horse, found Gantor holding the reins of his and vaulted onto its back.

“Now where are you off to?” Ainsley said in exasperated tones.

“I thought I might see if I can gather up a few extra horses,” Hurst said, with a grin. “That would round off the day nicely, don’t you think?”

Three days after Mia went to the Warlord’s bed, he set off for the Third Section. She didn’t need to be told why: men from all his Sections were gathering there for a battle, and he, as leader, had to be there. There had been a great many riders coming and going with messages, groups of fighting men making their way south and much anxiety amongst those who would be left behind.

“I’m leaving six of my Captains here,” he told her, as he sorted through clothes to pack. “That’s not enough to mount a defence, so if there’s any sort of trouble from
them
,” and she knew he meant the Karningers, “they’ll just ring the bell, and you’re to get straight down to the tunnel, you hear? Don’t wait about, don’t stay up high, because if
they
get here, they’ll burn this place to the ground. If they get into the tunnels, go east. The Captains will look after you, if you do what they say. Probably won’t be any trouble, and you’ll have a nice quiet time.” He stopped and looked at her then, his face a blank. “Don’t suppose you’ll miss me while I’m away.”

She wished she knew him well enough to understand his meaning. His tone was flat, as if it were a simple statement of fact, and she couldn’t believe he cared whether she missed him or not. After all, to him she was just one more in a succession of women. The last one had been a great beauty, apparently, but he had fallen out with her, and packed her off somewhere
– the other women didn’t know where. He’d been alone since the spring. Mia wondered why, when he could obviously have his pick. He’d asked for one of the women to share his bed a few times, but it hadn’t become permanent, to her relief. They all seemed a little afraid of him.

He was not an easy man to get to know, still less to like. She had begun in defiance, but in the end she had done exactly what he wanted. She wore gowns, as he preferred, she kept his quarters clean, she washed his clothes, and now she had submitted to him in bed. She had even cut her hair, since it was easier to manage with the poor soap they had. She had asked if she could ride sometimes, but he had refused. She had tried to find out where the rest of her Companions had gone, but he had told her nothing. He had told her next to nothing about himself. All she knew was that he was a Higher, or had been once. A lifetime ago, he had said.

The tales the other women told were not reassuring. They all lived by the whims of the men they belonged to. Any of them could be sent somewhere else at a moment’s notice. Mia was relatively sheltered for now, being under the protection of the Warlord, but when he tired of her, as he inevitably would, she would be passed on to someone else – another Warlord, if she were lucky, then maybe a Commander, the Captains, the Section House and ultimately Supplies, to end her days as a kitchen crone or the old woman in the basement, half mad with loneliness.

While the men were away, the other women and the kitchen workers regarded it as a holiday, sitting around gossiping for hours on end. Mia preferred to be busy. Constant work numbed her pain.

She cleaned her floor of the tower every day, dusting every corner with a feather duster – cassamella feathers! they were more precious than gold in the Karnings – polishing the furniture with a dried-up pot of beeswax she found on a shelf, and even cleaning the windows. That and the laundry took up most of the morning.

She was still modifying gowns to fit, so she spent her afternoons stitching. The gowns in the box were mostly too elaborate for her taste, so she went through every shelf of the old woman’s room looking for simpler styles, and took days to adapt each one. Sometimes she came across trousers and tunics in better quality materials, so she took those too, and took them in to fit her. Just in case, she told herself. Just in case I can ever persuade him to let me wear them.

She missed her books. Even with work to keep her hands busy, the days stretched long and dull in front of her. She tried not to think too much, because inevitably her thoughts came round to Hurst, and then to Jonnor and her dead baby, and she would find herself weeping.

There was no point in wallowing, she told herself. Her life was as it was, and there was nothing she could do about it for now. Even if she could escape, there was nowhere to go, no way back to the life she had lost. And there were worse things, after all, than being a prisoner of a man like the Warlord. At least he was clean and sober, he didn’t hurt her and he was only one man. His demands were not excessive. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be at the Section Houses or at Supplies, with a great many men to deal with, one after another. How could the women cope with it? They coped with it because they had no choice, she supposed, just like her.

No information came back to them about the battle, but she didn’t much care about that. Sooner or later, the Warlord would come back and life would carry on as before. Or perhaps he would die. Maybe he was dead already, and she just didn’t know it. But it made no difference to her – if he died, she would belong to someone else. But at least she wouldn’t grieve for him, she would be spared that.

She was more concerned about the possibility that the Karningers would sweep out of their fastnesses and rain down fire and death on them. Each day she watched from her windows for the slightest sign of movement. And if they did, could she somehow get a message to them
– help me, I’m one of you, held here against my will? But of course she wasn’t one of them anymore. She was marked now. Even if she could contact them somehow, they wouldn’t have her back. If she could get home, they would just send her straight back here, maimed or more likely dead.

She considered whether that might actually be preferable to her present life. Is it always better to be alive, no matter the circumstances? So many of her books had put the heroine through the most dreadful ordeals, but of course she always triumphed in the end and everything worked out happily, and that was just not possible for her. She was trapped in her tower like the daughters of the Petty Kings, but she wasn’t a princess, she was a whore. Real life was a great deal more bitter than works of the imagination.

~~~

For a week she was alone, sleeping dreamlessly in the big comfortable bed, but then he came back, as she knew he would. The women had warned her that he was always difficult after a battle, but she found him difficult all the time so she didn’t know what else to expect.

She went down to the compound to watch him arrive with all his Captains. She wasn’t sure whether he expected that or not, but she had often gone to meet Hurst and Jonnor when they returned from the Skirmishes, so it seemed fitting. After a brief nod in her direction, he disappeared, no doubt to discuss everything that had happened with his Captains.

But when he came upstairs for the stillness, she saw the change in him. Instead of lying at ease on the bed, he moved about restlessly, from room to room, from chair to window to bed and then to a different chair. And he talked
– that was different too. Not about the battle, but strange things, as if his mind were disconnected somehow and left to hop about like a rabbit.

“I suppose you’re sorry I’m back.” His voice was flat, lifeless. “You’ve had a nice restful time without me, no doubt.” What was she supposed to say to that? “That gown is very plain. Have you nothing prettier? I’d like to see you in something stylish.”

“I like plain garments,” she said, “but I’ll see what else there is.”

“Has any fresh meat come from Supplies yet?”

“I don’t know… we’ve had hare and moundrat.”

“There was rain again yesterday. Heavy at first, but it cleared.”

She had no idea how to talk to him. She had already offered him food and drink, but he wanted nothing, it seemed. She picked up her sewing and set to her work, leaving him to prowl about the room.

“Your hair looks better.”

“Thank you.”

Then, unexpectedly, he punched the wall. “Fuck it, I hate this war.”

“Did it go badly then? The battle?”

“Badly? No, actually. It went well…” And he laughed, an odd mirthless sound, not quite sane, somehow, as if he were on the verge of hysteria.

“It must be a dreadful business…” she said tentatively.

He rounded on her at once, crossing the room to lean over her. “And what would you know about it, you with your dainty Karning ways and your protected life?” he hissed, his face inches from hers, so that she leaned away in alarm. “What can you possibly know of blood and death and men screaming and dying in agony?”

Before she could reply, he had veered away again, standing by the window gazing out across the plain. After a moment, in a flat voice, he said, “There’s a huge herd of kishorn to the south. They’re gathering for the rut already.”

She was beginning to be frightened by his strange mood. He was not an easy man, as a rule, but at least he was usually calm, controlled
– that was it, he seemed out of control. Jonnor used to get fidgety and angry sometimes after a skirmish went wrong, but Tella had known how to manage him, at least in the early years she had. With sex, usually, Mia recalled. Tella had laughed about it. “Men are so simple,” she had said, “so easy to distract.”

Mia put down her sewing and walked across to the window. “Do you want to go to bed?”

He spun round to face her. “Bed? No, why…? Oh, you mean…?” Another mirthless laugh. “You think sex will help, that I’ll instantly forget everything I’ve seen, the men who’ve died?”

“My sister said that sex makes everything seem better.”

“You sister must be a whore, then, to see only the smile of the moment on a man’s face and not the burdens he still carries.”

In desperation, she dropped to her knees and began to unfasten his trousers. She half expected him to push her away, to stomp off, to shout at her, but he didn’t. He told her to stop, several times, but he stood still and let her unbutton him. He was already erect, she found, and when she took him in her mouth he gave a long “Oh!” of surprise, and then a shuddering groan, and after that there were no more protests. He was noisy this time, she found, gasping and moaning, his hands gripping her hair, but he didn’t move, he simply stood while she worked on him.

But then he suddenly said, “No, no! Stop, stop! Wait, stop…” He was panting heavily.

When she pulled away from him he hauled her roughly to her feet, fumbling urgently with her gown. She held it up for him, and then he was pushing into her, thrusting hard and crying out, head thrown back. It was over very quickly. They stood wordlessly together for a long time, his hands still on her buttocks, his head sideways against hers so that his cheek rested on her hair.

Afterwards, he lay on the bed, as he usually did during the stillness. She took her sewing through, and sat on her box under the window. He lay stretched out, his fingers laced across his chest. His eyes were closed and she began to think he was asleep, but after a long time, he said, “That thing that you did – what do you call it?”

“I don’t know a name for it. Does it matter?”

“It’s just that if ever you should say to me – would you like me to do
that
– I would be able to say yes.”

She chuckled, thinking that it was perhaps the nearest he’d ever come to making a joke. “You enjoyed it, then?”

He opened his eyes, and something approaching a smile flitted across his face. “Yes. I enjoyed it. No one’s ever done that to me before.”

“Really?”

“Women here – they don’t do it. Tonguing, the men call it, but it’s not allowed. They’re not allowed to ask for it, that is. They do it to each other, sometimes, but the women don’t. Where did you learn it?”

“One of my husbands taught me.”

“Well, it’s good that you’re getting to enjoy your work here.”

“Enjoy it?”

“Well, why else do it? I didn’t ask for it, you wanted to.”

She put her sewing down on her lap and stared at him. “I didn’t
want
to, but you were frightening me and I thought it would help you calm down.”

He rolled onto one elbow, and glared at her. “You’re frightened of me?”

“A little, yes.” Her heart was thumping now, but it did no good to lie to him.

“You did that out of fear? You were so frightened of me that you did something you disliked and I hadn’t asked for, and hadn’t even thought about?”

“I don’t dislike
that
, I mean, it’s not the sex I dislike, I’m used to that, it’s just…”

“Just me, I suppose? Am I so dreadful to be with?”

“No! You’re better than the alternatives…”

“Better than Bulraney, you mean, which isn’t saying much.” He was angry now, she could see that. He stood up and loomed over her. “You’re an ungrateful woman, you know that?”

For a moment she was too astonished to speak, but then suddenly she was fired by anger. She tossed her sewing aside and stood up too, glaring up at him, too angry to be intimidated.

“I’m supposed to be grateful, am I? Grateful for what? For losing a husband I loved, my family, my place in the world? For being dragged here for no reason I can discern? For losing my baby, any possibility of a baby? For being owned
–
owned
– by a man who’s a stranger to me, who can trade me like a horse, and just as indifferently? Grateful for being alive, I suppose, because I don’t see any other reason for it. It’s not the sex I mind, it’s being expected to provide it for a man I barely know. I still have a husband living, he’s still there in his Karning, grieving for me, and I’m here grieving for him. And I have another husband who might have come through the tunnel. I had three Companions with me, but I’m not allowed to see them, I’m not even allowed that small comfort. Instead I’m surrounded by strangers, and my only value is in providing sex whenever required. Do you wonder I’m ungrateful? And everyone here must have gone through something similar, you must have done too, can’t you at least try to understand? Maybe in ten years or even five, when the memories have faded, I will know you well enough and like you well enough to be with you from choice. But it’s too soon. It’s far too soon.”