25
King of Wolves
Fremur was awakened by the butt end of a spear shoved hard into his stomach. As he lay gasping in the muddy straw of Rudur Redbeard’s paddock he was jabbed again. “Get on your feet or I’ll have your guts out with the other end, whelp,” said the clansman holding the spear.
Fremur pushed it away and sat up. It all came rushing back to him—Unver’s capture and his own precarious status—and he realized he no longer cared. Either he had been right to follow the tall man or he had been wrong. But he would not grovel.
He was prodded again. “Take that away from me or I will make you eat it,” Fremur said.
The clansman’s face writhed into a snarl of anger. He turned the spear to level the iron head at Fremur’s belly. “Then I will show you what your guts look like, Thane Mustache.”
“Hold,” said another voice. “Nothing wrong with a man showing a little fire.” The newcomer stepped forward from where he had been overseeing the rousting of the other prisoners. He looked Fremur up and down with amused contempt. “Vybord’s right though. A proper thane should have a beard.”
“I have not had time to find a bride here at the Thanemoot,” Fremur told him. “Rudur’s . . . invitation was unexpected.”
The man laughed. He was bigger than his underling, brawny, with ritual scars and tattoos covering much of his face. He was also missing half his teeth, so that one cheek sagged a little. “Crane Clan, eh?” he said. “You lake-birds. I know your kind. Good scouts, but when the fighting gets fierce you all take wing.”
“Just free my hands and give me my sword and I’ll show you fierce.” But just looking at the size of this man and the evidence of many combats survived, Fremur knew it was likely a foolish boast.
The other fellow still seemed more amused than angry. “Get up, then, Thane Mustache. I am Odobreg, Thane of the Badger Clan and Rudur’s chief bondsman. You have a sharp tongue, pup, but I do not kill men who have been beaten and left in the mud. Get up.”
“So Rudur can have me killed instead? I would rather it happen now so I don’t have to watch him crow and strut.”
“Do not think to know what Rudur wants or what Rudur plans.” Odobreg sounded more amused than angry. “He is subtle beyond what any Lake-man can understand. He called you guest and said you would live—it is only that upstart, the half stone-dweller, who has been put outside the fence. And if you get up now, after your clan has bowed to Redbeard I might have use for a man with sharp wits and courage.”
Fremur climbed to his feet and stood, hands still tied behind his back, stiff and sore and unsteady as a newborn colt. “And when Unver finally kills Redbeard, Thane Odobreg, I might have use for you.”
The clansman who had first woken him snarled at this, but Odobreg seemed a man of broader temperament; he threw back his head and laughed. “Good! That is good. Very well, little lake-bird, I offer you a wager. At the end of the day, the one whose chieftain is dead will bow to the other and offer his neck for the sword or the collar.”
Fremur could barely hold his temper back at hearing Unver treated so lightly, but these men had not seen what he had. “Very well, then,” he said, and let himself be herded toward the paddock gate with the others, “we have a wager.”
“Ah, Thane Mustache.” Odobreg showed the few front teeth he still owned. “I will enjoy having you bring me yerut in my silver cup. You will be like another son for me to cuff into obedience and a respectful tongue.”
The crowd that had gathered was even larger than it had been the evening before. Most of the people seemed to have been waiting around Rudur’s camp since the sun’s first light. Unver’s Stallions, Fremur, and his Cranes were marched out to wait in the damp morning until Rudur finally deigned to emerge.
“Has the hour come?” he said loudly, as if this was the first time he had thought about it since rising. “Then we must go and see how the spirits have treated Shan Nobody.”
There was laughter, especially from Rudur’s own clan, but Fremur thought he saw disapproving faces in the crowd as well, even some unhidden anger. Redbeard had never been popular, but he had made bargains with the stone-dwellers that had kept the city men out of the Thrithings-lands for years. But that had changed of late, and the one thing that all grasslanders shared was resentment of the castle-folk with their cities and walls and weapons. Fremur guessed some among the crowd had also heard that Unver had fulfilled many of the old prophecies, and resented Rudur trying to destroy something that had given them hope.
But though Fremur looked hard at all the faces he passed for signs of Redbeard’s weakness or unpopularity, he also knew that none of it would matter if Unver was dead. He might become a figure of future tales, one of the many failed hopes that peopled grassland history, but that would be scant use to those who had cast their lot with him.
If I live after this, it will be as a Black Bear turnspit, he thought with a flame of helpless anger in his belly—a slave. And poor Hyara will be given to one of Rudur’s underlings, someone no better than the brute husband Unver killed.
The procession led by Rudur and his shaman Volfrag grew even larger as it made its way around the edge of the encampment and headed toward the Spirit Hills. Soon enough they reached the base of the highest of the Spirit Hills, where Rudur’s guards were waiting.
“Have you kept the hill safe all night?” Rudur asked them loudly. “Have you left Unver Long Legs alone with the spirits he claims have chosen him?”
“After beating him with the Summer Rose until he was almost dead!” shouted Fremur, but Rudur ignored him. The guards all swore that nothing larger than a mouse had passed them from dusk to dawn.
“Well, then either the spirits came to him in their many forms and worshipped at his feet—or perhaps they came and showed him less kindness.” Rudur laughed loudly at his own jest.
Fremur knew that the chances that Unver had survived the night after such a terrible whipping would have been small, but left bound, bloody, and unprotected, he was almost certainly dead. Hunting was forbidden on the sacred hill, and at night the wolves, bears, and sometimes catamounts all roamed the wooded slopes in complete freedom.
Rudur led the crowd upward along the winding trail. Some of them were grave and looked little happier than Fremur, but others clearly found it a merry outing, a bit of fun. But even the noisiest fell silent as they approached the great stone and the wooden post and for the first time caught sight of the figure slumped motionless at its base. Fremur saw how much blood had soaked into the ground around the prisoner’s body and felt despair. Unver’s chin was on his chest, his legs stretched before him, and every part of him Fremur could see was covered with dried brown blood.
Then Unver lifted his head to look at Rudur, eyes twin gleams under his brow and the bloodied tangle of his hair.
It was not a sudden movement, more like that of a man who has been deep in thought and finally realizes that someone has been speaking to him, but it startled the approaching crowd like a sudden roar of thunder, and transfixed Fremur with sharp, almost painful joy. Unver lived! Many of the clansfolk stopped where they were and cried out, transfixed with superstitious surprise. Even Rudur Redbeard was taken aback: Fremur saw the Thane of Thanes almost stumble before recovering himself. But Rudur was no fool, though he was no doubt cursing himself for not simply taking Unver’s head instead of trying to make him an example.
The mood of the crowd had suddenly but definitely changed. Whatever else he might be, Rudur Redbeard was no fool, and Fremur knew that he could sense it too. Against all odds, Unver had survived the night, but for Rudur to accept it and release him would be only to make his legend greater and Redbeard’s own reputation smaller.
Rudur waved to Volfrag to follow him. The curious, whispering grasslanders moved forward after them, Fremur and the other prisoners carried forward like chaff on the wind, although fear of Rudur or the spirits of the place caused the crowd to stop a respectful distance from the great stone and the prisoner’s bloodied post.
“I see you are stronger than I guessed,” Rudur said. “It is unfortunate you are mad—you might have made a good thane to your clan after all. Come, you must be thirsty after your long night, and I am not a cruel man.” He gestured, and Volfrag took the top off the carved box he had carried to the hilltop, revealing a golden ewer and two large gold cups.
“Pour the man a cup of wine, Shaman,” Rudur said loud enough for much of the crowd to hear. “Let no one say Rudur is not a fair-minded host.”
Volfrag, his great bearded face impassive, poured wine from the ewer and then passed the goblet to Rudur. Unver still had not spoken, but only glowered up at the Thane of Thanes, his face a bloody mask.
“Drink it,” Rudur said, lowering the cup to Unver’s mouth. “There is not much mercy in the world.”
“No!” a woman screamed. “Don’t touch it! It is poison!”
Fremur saw Unver’s mother, Vorzheva, fight her way out of the crowd. Once free of those trying to hold her back she ran across the open ground toward the post, but she was running toward Rudur, not her son, and her fingers were curved like claws. Several of the guards grabbed her, but she nearly managed to slip away from them as well, her hands snatching at the air only a short distance from Redbeard’s face.
“By the Midnight Growler,” he shouted, “are none of you men, who can keep a woman under control?”
“Coward! Liar!” Vorzheva’s face was so full of fury she looked like a madwoman. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, one sleeve left behind in her struggle to reach Redbeard. “Now you would poison him in front of all the clans!”
Rudur’s hand snapped out, striking Vorzheva hard enough that she tumbled back into the arms of the men holding her. “Keep that bitch away from me!” He turned to the crowd. “There seems to be no end to the Cranes and Stallions and their lies. You heard this bitch claim I mean to poison him.” He held up the cup, then took a long swallow before wiping his mouth with the hand that had just silenced Vorzheva. He lowered the cup to Unver’s mouth. “I will not offer it to you again,” he warned.
Unver found the strength to kick out with one of his legs and knock the cup from Rudur’s hand. Fremur was astonished he could manage it after all he had suffered. The golden cup landed with a dull clink on the stony ground, wine splashing out in a broad half-circle before the cup stopped rolling.
“I am tired of you, Long Legs.” Rudur’s voice still carried, but there was something in it that Fremur had not heard before—cold hatred. He was perilously close to being made to look a fool and he did not like it. “I am tired of your claims—you, who lets his whore mother fight for him, the woman who took a stone-dweller to be her man. Yes, I know who she is.” He gestured to Volfrag. “Pour me another cup, shaman.” He took the new cup from Volfrag and held it up. “It is only fair, after all. Unver Long Legs may rest here, but I still have to walk back down.” Several of his underlings laughed at this jest as Rudur took a long swallow and smacked his lips. “I am a fool for wasting good Perdruin red on a traitor,” he declared.
“He did not waste it—Unver gave it to the spirits!” someone in the crowd shouted.
Rudur turned, glaring, trying to see who had mocked him. “Then the spirits can care for him. He will stay here, tied to this pole, until he dies. I warrant the beasts of this place were put off by all the people tramping across the sacred hills yesterday. This time Unver will remain for three days—and anyone who comes to give him aid will face my anger. He claims to be something greater than a man. Let him prove it.”
Rudur waved to his men and was turning to go when Vorzheva, still held by several of them, began to cry out and nod toward the ground. “The spirits did come!” she shouted. “Look, all my people! Look at the earth! See for yourselves!”
One of Redbeard’s men clapped a hand over her mouth, but the startled crowd was already pushing forward to examine the ground around Rudur, Unver, and the post. At first there was nothing but confusion, because few were close enough to see anything, but then Fremur saw what Vorzheva had noticed and felt his heart swell in his breast. He could not point with his hands tied, but he pulled a little apart from the others and cried, “She’s right! She’s right! Look at the ground! Look at the tracks! The wolves came in the night!”
And then the crowd shoved forward in earnest, some even falling onto their hands and knees. Those at the front stopped just short of the circle of muddy paw-prints that described a rough half-circle on the stony plateau, a crescent curved around the post where Unver was still tied.
“The wolves came! Just like what I saw in the Lakelands!” Fremur shouted, and though he knew he might be silenced for good with a blow from a sword or ax, he could not stay quiet. “The moon-howlers came to him in the night—the spirits sent them! Unver is the king of wolves!”
“It’s true!” someone shouted. “See, the wolves came to him! Just like Edizel the Great!” Some even moved toward the place where Unver still slumped as if to set him free.
Rudur bellowed at his men to push the crowd back, and several of them waded in, not just shoving but swinging swords and axes to drive the people away. The crowd stumbled backward before them, but most of the onlookers were angry now, or at least shaken by what had happened, and those at the back who had not seen and heard were still pushing forward. In a few moments more, Rudur and his men would have to start killing. Redbeard put the Silent One’s stone at his back, and his men pulled in tight around him, weapons upraised.
“I will kill anyone who lifts a hand against me,” he shouted, staring at the crowd, his eyes bulging, his red beard bristling so that his jaw seemed to have caught fire. “That is a promise, and Rudur Redbeard always keeps his promises . . . always . . .”
His voice, a moment before at a bellowing peak, suddenly became quieter.
“Always . . .” he said, and then stopped to gulp air. “I . . . will . . .” Rudur looked around as though he had forgotten where he was. He blinked twice, lifted his sword once more, and opened his mouth to speak again, then folded to the ground like a dropped saddlebag and lay gasping. He shuddered and fell still.
“It was poisoned wine!” someone shouted. “He has drunk poison that he meant for the Shan!”
For a moment no one else in the crowd said anything, startled and dismayed by the suddenness of Redbeard’s collapse. Volfrag the shaman kneeled next to him, looked into his still-open eyes, then felt the veins in his neck before turning to Rudur’s bondsmen, who were as stunned as cattle caught out in a sudden thunderstorm.
“He is dead.” Volfrag’s deep voice carried out across the crowd. The shaman abruptly stood, spreading his arms so that his robes billowed in the breeze, and raised his voice even louder. “Rudur Redbeard is dead! The spirits have spoken! Unver of the Stallion Clan is innocent of all claims laid against him!”
The crowd erupted in a great burst of noise, people shouting, some screaming in superstitious fear, others bellowing with joy. Fights broke out on all sides, and several of Rudur’s lieutenants broke and ran, pursued by other clansmen intent on capturing and punishing them. Everywhere people seemed caught up in sudden madness.
“Cut my bonds!” Fremur shouted. “Let me go to Unver! Someone cut my bonds! I must go to him!”
A man Fremur did not know stepped forward and sawed through the thongs with a broad knife. Without waiting for his fellows, Fremur leaped toward the post where Unver was already surrounded by wide-eyed men and women.
“Get back,” Fremur cried, pushing his way through. “Let me reach him!”
He called for a knife, then hacked at the thick, knotted cords that held Unver to the post. When he had finally severed them, he and several others helped the prisoner to stand. The tall man left dried blood and tatters of skin stuck to the wood of the execution pole, but he never made a sound of protest. But when Fremur and the others would have lifted him, Unver snarled and swiped at them with an arm still deep-dug with the mark of his bonds.
“I will walk on my own legs,” he said, though he barely had the breath for it. His back was a ravaged ruin, and the knife-cuts on his face and chest had opened again, streaming blood, but Unver stood swaying until he felt ready to take a step. Some turned and ran ahead, shouting the news to others in the crowd who could not see what was happening.
“He is alive! And Rudur is dead by his own treachery! The Shan is alive! He has come back to us!”
Unver took a few staggering steps. Fremur tried to convince him to lean on his shoulder if he would not be carried, but Unver would not even look at him. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on something in the distance, his teeth clenched in a mirthless grin of pain. At last Fremur, still weak and aching himself, was pushed aside by others who wanted to touch Unver. Fremur looked around for Vorzheva or Hyara or any of his own Crane clansmen, but the freed prisoner was surrounded by strangers now, folk from all over the Thrithings, some singing old songs, others shouting that the days of prophecy had returned.
As Fremur followed the exulting crowd, a bearded clansmen approached him, face strangely intent. Fremur was too exhausted to fight, and prepared himself for whatever vengeance this stranger wished to carry out: it did not matter now. The Shan had truly returned, and all had seen the proof of what Fremur had said. Nothing could take that from him.
But instead of attacking, the bearded man sank to his knees in front of Fremur, and it was only then that he recognized Odobreg of the Badger Clan.
“What do you want?” Fremur asked.
Odobreg drew his curved sword from its scabbard and offered it up. “Without honor a man is nothing. I made a foolish wager and lost, but the spirits only care that a man is true. I will bow my neck so you can take my head.”
Fremur stared down at him and at the gleaming blade, then reached out and gave the man’s arm a shove. “Put your sword away. You are a man of honor. Your clan and my clan are one now—we all belong to Unver Shan.”
Odobreg looked up at him, his fixed expression now changed to something more doubtful, more fearful. “What has happened here today?” he asked, almost plaintively. “What madness have we all been part of?”
“It is not madness, but destiny.” The words seemed the truest Fremur had ever spoken, and at that moment he felt like a shaman, with all the spirits speaking through him. “The world will be ours again, as it once was. We will go out from this empire of grass with our brave horsemen and fight until the entire world bends its knee to the new Shan. And you and I will be at the very heart of it all.”
As the madness raged across the Thanemoot, Agvalt and his bandits could do little except post sentries and stay close to the fire in their camp at the end of the lake; Count Eolair, still their prisoner, could do even less. Whatever had occurred on the hill called the Silent One had swept across the camps like the wave that had destroyed ancient Gemmia.
Hours later, as the sun sank and stars began to kindle in the wide sky, Eolair could still hear the sound of chaos everywhere, people rushing back and forth shouting contradictory tales, shrieks of joy and others of agony, people cheering, screaming, arguing, and once the sound of an entire wagon crashing over onto its side not much more than a stone’s throw away. Eolair saw flames licking upward in several places beyond the ring of trees in which his bandit captors sheltered, and for the first time was content to be a valued prisoner instead of a free man, because whatever was happening outside their camp sounded like war.
“They have been roused against outsiders by someone,” said Hotmer, sharpening his sword with grim attention. “When they find us they will tear us apart.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Agvalt. “This is not the first time I have heard such madness. Mark me, it is something to do with Redbeard and his hunger to rule them all. Perhaps he has executed the pretender and they are all celebrating.”
A screech cut the air, long and ragged—it seemed to come from the spot where the wagon still burned bright against the purple evening sky. The cry rose and rose, then abruptly ended.
“Whatever happened, not everyone is in a celebratory mood, it seems,” said Eolair.
“Bah.” Agvalt spit into the fire. “You know little of the grasslands, king’s man. That is how the free riders make merry. Murder and rape are their favorite pastimes.”
A bit too proud, are you not, since you are an outlaw and a clansman yourself? Eolair thought, but kept silent as he stared into the wavering flames. I never hoped for a quiet life in my later days. I did not think it would happen, nor did I want it to. But by Brynioch and all the gods, I did not want to spend those days in the company of cutthroats and madmen. I do not want to die beside this lake in the middle of the empty grasslands, just to feed the flies.
“I should learn what is happening out there,” he said suddenly. “My king would want to know.”
Agvalt looked at him but only spit into the fire again. It landed on a stone and sizzled.
“I only ask that when you go out among them again, you take me,” Eolair said. “Tie my legs, tie my arms, I do not care. You said you will ransom me, and I owe a responsibility to the High King and Queen. They will want to know what is happening here.”
Agvalt smirked. “We are taking you nowhere, rabbit-eater, so do not try to play the fox. You would be no good to us with your throat slit.”
“You said you will ransom me—”
“Piece by piece if you do not shut your mouth.” The look in the bandit chieftain’s eye was murderous, but Eolair thought it covered fear of the madness that surrounded them. “He will not know you are dead until I send him your head at the last.”
Eolair said no more but he was satisfied. He had put the idea in Agvalt’s head, like a seed. If he was lucky, it would sprout later when he could actually hope to make use of it.
Shortly, one of the other bandits returned to the campfire. He ignored the questions from the rest of his fellows and sat down next to Agvalt.
“What did you see?” the bandit chief demanded.
“What did I see?” The man shook his head. It took him a moment to find words. “What did I not see? They have run wild out there, wild as horses in a fire. Brother fighting brother, clansman fighting clansman. Three times at least I saw men fighting to the death with axes and swords, and none around them were even watching, so busy were they with mischief of their own.”
“But what is it about, curse it?” Agvalt asked.
“The one called Redbeard is dead. I do not know how—nobody I spoke to knew either—but it is something to do with the one called Unver, who they are already calling Shan.”
“A pox on them all,” said Agvalt. “And if Rudur is dead he deserved it, trying to pull all the clans under his banner while also toadying to the Nabbanai. It makes the wagon folk think things will get better, but it never does.”
“But why are they all fighting?” Eolair asked.
Agvalt made a noise of derision. “They’re not all fighting. Unver’s clan and friends are doubtless celebrating, and their newest allies are busy trying to convince him that they supported him all along.” The young bandit chieftain spat again. “What you hear out there is the madness of change—a time to take up old grudges in the old way instead of sober judgments by clan elders. I suppose they think it is freedom.” He scowled. “Every time some new upstart declares himself, the wagon-men rouse themselves to a frenzy and make the grasslands unsafe for honest outlaws. Small wonder I left this all behind for a better life.” His expression brightened. “Still, if we stay out of their way they are unlikely to seek us out. Tonight they will be more interested in killing their hated brothers-in-law and stealing their neighbors’ wives and horses than looking for strangers to mistreat.”
Eolair could only admire Agvalt’s understanding of the dangers and benefits, but he did not feel reassured. He had seen groups of angry people turn into mobs too many times, and mobs turn into mindless, many-armed beasts, smashing and burning everything they could reach. Drunken clansman might not seek out strangers to kill, but they would probably remember some reason to hate them anyway if they came across Agvalt’s band.
“Monstrous,” he said quietly.
“Yes. And that is what we all are underneath,” said Agvalt. “But there is more than death being given out tonight. There will be many babies born of this when the Green Season rolls around again, and not all of them against the womens’ wishes. I said freedom before, and that is the sound you are hearing, Count Stone-Dweller, so remember that when you claim to love it, as most of your kind do. Listen well.”
The bandits put out the fire then, preferring darkness to being noticed, and took turns standing sentry. As the night plodded past, Eolair did his best to ignore the cries and screams, the bellows of laughter like the merriment of demons, the horses whinnying and children sobbing.
If I believed in the Aedonite hell, he thought, staring up at the distant, cold stars, I would swear that I am already in it.
Porto did not go far afield in his quest to discover what was happening, because the things he saw around him were too frightening and too dangerous. But by the time he returned to the campsite Levias was fighting for his life.
Two clansmen had him backed against a tree. One of them held the horses’ reins, as though Levias had caught them horsestealing. Both the bearded men looked and sounded drunk, but they were young and good-sized and clearly were toying with Levias before murdering him.
“You have the look of a spy,” one said in halting Westerling. “From Nabban, eh? Did the stone-dweller duke send you here?”
Levias did not waste his breath arguing, but kept his sword raised in front of him to knock aside the half-hearted blows loosed from time to time.
“Not right,” said the second clansman, who sounded the drunker of the two. “Not right. Nabban scum.” He lunged at Levias, but Levias had shrunk back against the trunk of the tree and just managed to turn the man’s thrust aside with his own blade. The curved sword sliced across the sergeant’s front and blood began to soak his shirt, black in the dim light of the fire.
Porto cursed, then lifted his sword and ran forward as fast as he could, trying to time his swing.
The less drunk of the two clansmen heard him at the last moment, but turned too slowly and had only a moment to goggle before Porto’s sword struck him a fingerspan or two above the collar of his leather armor. Having little else to do in the evenings, Porto had sharpened his blade more than once, and the edge all but took the man’s head off with one swing. The grasslander staggered a step to the side and then collapsed.
The other clansman saw his companion fall and managed to spin and block Porto’s next attack. As drunk as the fellow was—Porto could smell vomit on his clothes—he was still faster than the old knight: Porto could only pray that Levias would step in so that they would outnumber the clansman. But Levias did not come forward to challenge, and it was all Porto could do to keep the grasslander’s curved blade striking him anywhere vital. His opponent had realized that he was the younger one: he intensified his attack. Moving backward, unable to lower his sword and thus unbalanced, Porto stumbled backwards and fell, but still Levias did not come forward to help. In fact, as Porto scrabbled backward on his seat, trying to stay out of the clansman’s reach, he saw that Levias, propped against the tree, his shirt quite black with blood, was not moving.
Desperate, Porto grabbed up a handful of dirt as he got to his feet and flung it into his attacker’s eyes. The man reeled back, pawing at his face, then abruptly turned and ran stumbling into the trees.
Porto bent his shaking legs until he could kneel beside Levias. “Do you live?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Oh, sweet God, have they killed you?”
“Not yet,” Levias said in hardly more than a whisper. “But not for lack of trying.”
Porto cursed, but he also knew he could do nothing about his friend’s wounds yet—not here. He looked around for their horses, but they had fled during the fight. “Be brave,” he told Levias. “I must move you. Try to hold the wound closed with your hands.”
He rolled Levias over on his side as carefully as he could manage, then gripped his companion’s armor at the shoulders and began to drag him away from the campsite. There was every chance the Thrithings-man who had run would come back with friends, so despite the burning ache in his own muscles and the hot pincer that seemed to be squeezing his backbone, Porto dragged the gasping, moaning Levias through several stands of trees and across a number of gulleys until he found a deep coomb where he could lay the wounded sergeant down. He covered the space above them with cut branches as quickly as he could, so that no hasty observation would detect it.
“How are you? Can you hear me?” Porto took off his own shirt and poured water onto the cleanest part of it. When he had finally found the wound he saw that it was long and very bloody, but not ragged; his friend’s guts were still inside him. That was something to be grateful for, at any rate.
“Will my God take me now?” Levias’s eyes were fixed not on his wound but on the leafy darkness overhead. “I am tired—so tired. I am ready.”
“Not yet, by the Ransomer. Not yet.” Porto began tearing up the shirt and tying the pieces together, trying to make strips long enough to bind around his companion’s ample middle. But he stopped, realizing he would need moss to poultice the wound before binding. As the stars wheeled past them in the unseen sky, Porto simply held the edges of his friend’s wound together. Over and over, until his words had lost all meaning, even to him, Porto told the wounded man that God would indeed take him when his time came, but swore that time was not now.
Unver’s back was such a horror that Hyara could hardly bear to look at it, but her sister Vorzheva kept her in place with a voice as sharp as a snapped bowstring. “Don’t be a child. Here, put more honey and beer in that bowl and work it into a paste. I have almost finished cleaning his wounds.”
Unver lay face-down on a blanket in the great tent that had belonged to Rudur only hours earlier. Fremur and the others had seized it along with the rest of the camp as the spoils of Redbeard’s defeat, since there had not been enough Black Bear Clan loyalists left to defend it, only women and children and slaves. Outside the camp fences all was chaos, grasslanders of all ages shouting in desperation like beasts in a burning barn, but Vorzheva would not be distracted from her son by any of it. “Here, give that to me. Make more bandages—no, first make pads to put the poultice on, then we will bind them on the wounds afterward.”
Fremur came in, still filthy and covered with bloody scratches.
“What do you see out there?” Vorzheva asked without looking up.
“You can hear it for yourself,” he said. “Many of our folk believe Unver is the Shan. Others do not. Some are fighting about it. Some are merely taking the chance to steal and ravage.”
“All men are fools,” said Vorzheva.
“Doubtless,” he said. “But there are women with knives out there sawing the rings off dead men’s fingers.”
Hyara thought Fremur’s eyes looked empty. Such a day and night would change anyone, but she wondered if she would ever again see that kindness she had admired, so uncommon among the men she knew. Was that dying too, along with so many grassland folk who would not survive these hours of darkness?