Winterbirth (58 page)

'We cannot be certain, but Cannek's guess is a thousand Lannis fighting men and at least as many again townsfolk. And a few hundred Kilkry-Haig warriors: the survivors from Grive and a scattering of new arrivals.'

Wain began to turn the thick band of gold on the second finger of her left hand. She frowned in concentration, her food forgotten now.

'Fewer than we met at Grive,' she mused, 'but then, we are far fewer now as well.'

She had perhaps a thousand warriors within reach of Sirian's Dyke and fit to take the field. Another three hundred or so were back in Anduran, and must remain there to ensure the town and castle stayed secure. More than a thousand still besieged Tanwrye, along with hundreds from the other Bloods of the Black Road . They could not come to her aid until that obstinate town's garrison was broken. So, to face whatever threat might march up the road from Glasbridge she had at best a thousand swords, and the fifty or so of Shraeve's Battle Inkallim who remained alive and capable of wielding a blade. If Ragnor oc Gyre had answered their calls for aid, if he had sent just a fraction of his strength south . . . but the Black Road did not deal in ifs.

"We can make our stand here as well as anywhere else,' she said. 'If we take refuge inside Anduran we will only delay matters a little, until they can bring up enough strength to crush us there.'

'Indeed,' Shraeve agreed. She leaned forwards, lowering her voice. 'Perhaps we can hope for more than merely making a stand, though. Does your heart not hunger for Glasbridge? It's the last great town of Lannis-Haig . If we break it they'll be cast back all the way to Kolglas; we would hold the entire valley, from the Stone Vale to the sea.'

'Of course I hunger for it. It was the home of my forefathers.'

Shraeve sank back in her chair. 'Your hunger might be sated yet, given the willing sacrifice of a few lives.'

Wain sighed. 'Whatever you have in mind, Shraeve, just tell me. My belly's too empty for talking in circles.'

The Inkallim drove the four great horses past the inn. The beasts were massive, but bedraggled and cowed by the switches the ravens beat them with. Wain watched not the animals, but her own warriors who stood silently watching this strange procession. Wherever the ravens had found these horses — some farm outside Sirian's Dyke, no doubt — they knew how to make them into a spectacle. They herded them right through the village, through the Black Road army, and every curious eye followed their progress. Chains, scavenged from the smithy by the inn, dragged behind the horses, cutting ruts into the mud road.

A crowd followed the Inkallim and their horses to the edge of the village. The Inkallim went on, out on to the marshes that lay along the foot of the Dyke itself. Shraeve stood at Wain's side.

'It will give our people something to remember until their last day dawns,' Shraeve murmured.

Wain did not reply. She knew that what Shraeve wanted all these watching warriors to remember was that it was the Inkallim who had done this. What was about to happen would be a rich and nourishing symbol for the faithful, another story to add to the legends of the Children of the Hundred.

Out on the wettest ground, where sluices and pipes fed water over and through the huge dam and into the reborn Glas below it, some of the Inkallim turned back. Just six of their number remained with the uneasy, dishevelled horses. One of them climbed to the top of the dam and stood there for a moment or two, looking north. The breeze stirred his black hair. Wain could imagine the sight that greeted him: the great expanse of listless water and perhaps far out, at the edge of his vision on this cloud-bleared day, the broken remnants of Kan Avor standing proud of the lake. Satisfied, he went back down to the horses, and the great task began.

The Inkallim dug away the earth and turf from the face of the dam; bound chains about the great logs that ran through it; whipped the horses until they put all their huge strength into the effort to pull the structure apart. As time passed, many of the watchers drifted away. The horses laboured on, the Inkallim never paused. Timbers and rocks were scattered around the dam's foot. Water trickled through until the ravens were up to their knees. An hour passed, and then a second.

The sound began softly. A seething, hissing, heaving rumble, it built over long seconds. To Wain it was the sound and feel of sun-loosened snow crashing down some far-away mountain slope. Pebbles and clumps of earth were shaken loose from the sloping dam wall. Like blood spurting from myriad tiny wounds, water was flowing through the dyke. The four great horses began to whinny in fear. They struggled against their chains; one bolted free and went pounding through the marshes in plumes of spray.

The six Inkallim stood, gazing up at Sirian's Dyke. One turned towards Wain, Shraeve and the score or so of remaining watchers and raised her arm in silent salute.

And then all thought, all senses, were submerged beneath a great roar as the fabric of Sirian's Dyke began tearing itself apart. The seat of the rupture was deep and low in the dam, and it burst from its base, flicking rocks into the air and releasing jets and cascades of water. Billowing clouds of mist soared up and there was thunder as the centre of the dyke disintegrated and the river, freed of restraint for the first time in more than a century, burst in full, tumultuous flood down towards Glasbridge and the sea, bearing Inkallim and horses away in an instant.

Vale of Tears

FEW STORIES ARE now told of the time before the Huanin and Kyrinin, the Whreinin and the Saolin walked the world; the time when the One Race was alone upon the face of the earth, before they went to war with the Gods and were unmade. One that is remembered in some places is the tale of how the valley of the Dihrve came to be called the Vale of Tears.

Harigaig kept a herd of great cattle by the mouth of the River Dihrve. One day a daughter of his was keeping watch over the cattle as they grazed at the river's edge. She lay down to rest beneath the Sun's gaze, and the voice of the water sang her to sleep. Then Dunkane, an enemy of Harigaig's from the north, rose up out of the river. He had walked along its bed from its source in the high mountains and come thus secretly to the heart of Harigaig's lands. His had been the soothing voice of the river.

Dunkane stole the cattle and drove them away to the north. When Harigaig discovered the theft, he took up his club and his staff and set out to follow the thief. Dunkane had hidden his tracks, but Harigaig knew many words that were charms, for he had run with the Wildling's Hunt as a child. He spoke to the rocks and the trees and the water, and they told him of his enemy's path. Thus Harigaig found his cattle walled up in a valley in the Tan Dihrin, and Dunkane feasting upon them there. The two faced one another, and grew into giants whose feet broke cliffs and split boulders open. For a day and a night they fought back and forth across the mountains, until at the dawn of the second day Harigaig crushed Dunkane's head with his club and slew him. He freed his cattle and turned to go south once more, but he had taken grave wounds and as he walked his life began to flow out from his body.

Now his family - his wife and his three daughters who would one day be the brides of the Gatekeeper - had followed after him, and they took him up and carried him south through the mountains and down the valley, and as they went they wept, for they could see that he would not keep hold of life. When they came to the sea, Harigaig was already dead. They took his body to a headland and cast it into the waves, where it turned to stone and became the island called Il Dromnone, which is, in a tongue long forgotten by all save a few tellers of tales, Isle of Mourning. And the tears shed on the journey of Harigaig's wife and daughters had been so plentiful that the valley down which they had borne him was filled up with them, in great lakes and pools that lie there still. And that is how the valley of the Dihrve found its true name.

from
First Tales
 

transcribed
 
by Quenquane the Simple

IN THE HEART of Kolkyre, atop a mound ringed by a crenellated wall, rose the Tower of Thrones. A bleak grey spike of stone, it dominated the city that lay around it. For two hundred and fifty years this had been the seat of the Kilkry Thanes and from its chambers and council rooms they had, for much of that time, ruled over all the Bloods. The greater power now lay in Vaymouth, but the tower kept its name and the Thanes still dwelled within it.

The Tower of Thrones was already ancient when Grey Kulkain, who was to become the first Thane of Kilkry, made it his home and fortress amidst the chaos of the Storm Years. It came from a time before the Aygll Kingship was born; before even the last of the Whreinin, the wolfenkind, were slain and the Gods departed. Beneath the bustling streets of Kolkyre lay an older place, which here and there reached up through the surface of the city in the form of a derelict wall or a stretch of strangely paved road.

The Tower of Thrones alone of all the works of that first city's builders had survived intact. To some, its bleak perfection bore the mark of inhuman makers, and they called it, in hushed tones, the Spire of the First Race. For others, it had been the home of an unnamed human king who came long before the Aygll line, and whose reign and kingdom had passed from memory. Others still whispered of a forgotten
na'kyrim
lord who had raised it up with only the power of the Shared.

From a small, barred window high upon the tower's western flank, Taim Narran could see over the city to the foam-flecked sea beyond. The wind was driving waves up Anaron's Bay, piling them against the docks and quaysides of Kolkyre. Seagulls, grey-white curves against the dark water, were sliding across the wind. They were far away, and far below his lofty vantage point. There was a strange peace to be had from this distancing, Taim reflected, from being so aloof from the flow of events. He had been to Kolkyre many times before in his life, and until now its bustle and vigour -somehow more human and familiar than the chaos of Vaymouth — had been a pleasure. This time, his greatest wish was to be still, and separate, and apart from it all. He breathed deeply, savouring the sea tang borne up on the air.

A thick cough prompted him to turn away from the wide scene. Lheanor, the ageing Thane of Kilkry, was sitting and watching him. Long grey hair framed the Thane's face. He was dabbing at his lips with a cloth.

'Forgive me,' said Lheanor, 'I did not mean to disturb your reverie. It is a long climb to this chamber, and my old carcass protests.'

Taim smiled and shook his head. He gestured towards the window. 'A beautiful view."

'It is. My father spent many hours here. It made him a touch morose; too much time to reminisce, I think.

It reminded him of what we had lost.'

'Yes,' sighed Taim. 'The past must be heavy here.'

'Is there anywhere it rests lightly?' Lheanor murmured.

'Not in these days.'

'You can tell a good deal about a man from what he feels when he looks out from a great height,' the Thane said. 'What do you feel?'

'Nothing good. Not today. But it is, nevertheless, a beautiful view.'

He settled into a smaller seat beside Lheanor. They did not speak for some time. Taim's eyes closed and he rested. It had been a long time since he rested.

'I am sorry that our re-acquaintance has not been in better times,' he heard Lheanor say, and looked round to the old man. 'It was a sad enough sight to see you passing through on your way south at Gryvan's bidding. I thought your return, and Roaric's, would be a happier occasion.'

'As did I,' said Taim. 'Roaric cannot be far behind me, though. The times may be dark, but at least he will be home.'

'It's a poorer home he'll return to than the one he left. He had a brother then, before he went south.'

Taim averted his eyes. Lheanor's grief was too painfully apparent. It leaked out in his voice, beneath the words. 'And what of your home, Taim? I and my Blood have failed your lord, and you.'

'No,' protested Taim. 'You are the only true friends we have. The failure is not yours. That blame lies elsewhere.'

Lheanor's brow was furrowed. 'Blame; yes, there should be blame. For this plague of loss. But blame will not breathe life back into the dead. Anduran is gone, half of Kolglas burned, Glasbridge threatened.

The enemy must have been at the walls of Tanwrye for weeks now; even if its defenders still hold, they are far beyond our help. As your Thane and all his family must be.'

Taim pursed his lips and bowed his head. 'I know. I came too late.'

'Nonsense,' muttered Lheanor. 'You have driven yourself and your men to exhaustion getting here now.

In any case, if you had come any sooner you would only have added your bodies to those already feeding the crows. Forgive me. I speak poorly. Your family is somewhere in the valley still, I know.'

'You need ask no forgiveness of me,' replied Taim. 'Your son gave his life at Grive. You have already paid a terrible price for your friendship to my Blood. But . . . when I went south Jaen, my wife, went to stay with our daughter's family. In Glasbridge.'

The Thane sighed. 'I did not know. Ah, I would rather not have lived to see times such as these.'

There was such a desolation, Taim thought, behind those weary eyes. Is this what is to become of us all now? Hollowed-out; bereft.

'I try to keep hold of the hope that one of them may still live,' Lheanor said. 'Naradin, if not Croesan.

Even the babe, perhaps. But my heart tells me it is a foolish hope. The hounds of the Black Road have done their work thoroughly. I know you loved Croesan's life as well as you did your own.'

'Better. He was a better man than me.'

'One of the best. I will miss him. He and I often sat here, talking.'

'Of what?'

'What do old men always talk about? Our families. Our harvests, our hunting dogs, the price of furs and wool. He was not quite so old as me, so when I talked about aches and pains he could only listen. He did that well, though.' Lheanor smiled a broken smile. 'But we did talk of weightier matters, too. We thought our battles were to be fought against the pride of Gryvan and the Shadowhand; that their tithes and ambitions were a more likely threat than war out of the north, for the next few years at least. We hoped to die in our beds.'