42
A Single Arrow
Fremur and Unver were the last two to arrive at the great stone called the Silent One. Fremur thought the scene of the Shan’s torture an ill-chosen spot to hold this gathering, but Unver had insisted.
Fremur moved to help Unver down from his horse. The Shan’s wounds had healed to deep, blue-purple lines on his face, chest, and back, but he still limped badly.
“If you offer me that arm again where anyone can see, I will cut it off,” Unver said. “Many of these men are the same who called me a halfbreed weakling, and who laughed when I was whipped with the Summer Rose. I will not show them any weakness.”
He swung himself down from the saddle and began to walk up the hill, hiding his limp with what must have been sheer will. Two dozen men representing a wide range of mostly western and southern clans waited for him beside Spirit Rock—Fremur saw the thanes of Wood Duck and Dragonfly, Adder, Fox, and Lynx. Most of them watched with carefully empty expressions but others showed open suspicion. Only Odobreg and the tall, long-bearded shaman Volfrag seemed completely at ease.
To the obvious surprise of those waiting Unver walked past them to the tall stone, still flecked with spots of his own dried blood. When he reached it he turned and lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged against the pole with the Silent One looming behind him like the tall throne of some stone-dweller king. Fremur seated himself on Unver’s right, then Odobreg came to sit on his left. The others joined, facing the Shan in a broad crescent. Fremur could not help looking at the thanes and remembering the tracks of the wolfpack that had sat in just this way during Unver’s long night—like subjects before a great lord. He hoped the others remembered that, too.
The afternoon sun was already slipping toward the horizon and its slanting rays painted the crests of the Spirit Hills with a glow that was almost unearthly, but as the thanes sat in silence, all eyes on him, Unver did something very ordinary. He took off his skin bag and took a drink of it, then passed it to Fremur, who downed a swallow of the sour, fiery yerut before passing it to the next man, Anbalt, thane of the Adder Clan from the lakelands.
As the bag moved from one man to the next, Fremur could feel the thanes lose a little of their stiffness. Sharing the yerut was not the gesture of some would-be monarch, but of an old grassland chieftain, someone first among equals. By the time the skin had made its way around the circle to Odobreg, who tipped it up and squeezed out the last of the thick, fiery drink, the thanes were looking at Unver differently.
Volfrag began to intone a prayer, but Unver raised his hand. “The spirits spared me and saved me here,” he said. “We do not need to ask their permission. I would not be alive if they begrudged me this place.”
The shaman’s bearded face showed nothing. “As you wish, Unver Shan.”
“And if I am the Shan, it was not by my choosing.” Some of the chieftains stirred and shared covert glances. “But since the guardian spirits of all the clans have put their trust in me, I cannot turn away. I pledge my life to our clans. I pledge my life to you, the chieftains of those clans.” He paused, and it seemed that he would next ask them to pledge their lives to him in turn, but instead he said, “Who is with us, Odobreg?”
“All that you see here,” said the Badger Clan thane. “And many others who have left Blood Lake with their people because the First Red Moon waxes and they have far to go. But not all are with you. Antelope Clan and Pheasant Clan refused to swear their allegiance. The thanes of Otter, Wild Horse, and Kunret White-Beard of the Vulture Clan all made excuses, but they are small-hearted and will crawl back to you if you stay strong.”
“And what does that word mean—strong?” Unver set his hands on his knees, his back straight as a spear against the blood-spattered post. “Does it mean protecting our people and our lands? Then I will be strong. Does it mean waging wars that will do us more harm than good? Perhaps I will disappoint some of you.”
“We cannot be disappointed in the choice of the spirits,” said Etvin, thane of the Wood Ducks, one of the youngest present. “We all saw what happened. You are the Shan.”
“Then tell me what the people need.”
Etvin hesitated, unready to be asked to speak so openly. “They need . . . we need . . . to defend our land from the Nabban-men. Every year they take more of the Lakelands. Every year we are forced farther out into bare, rocky lands while they build their houses and castles beside our rivers.”
“Unver knows of this,” said Fremur. “We are Cranes, remember? We have fought the stone-dwellers for years all up and down the edge of the marshy Varn.”
“I am no longer a Crane,” said Unver, not in anger but with grim finality. “Nor am I a Stallion, though my mother and grandfather were. If I am Shan, I am Shan of all the clans. But I do not forget that I was a Crane. Fremur speaks rightly. I do not ignore what the Nabban-men are doing, and Etvin speaks rightly too. If we are men, we will put an end to such thievery. If they reach toward our cookfire, we must send them away with burned fingers.”
“Send them away with no fingers!” said Anbalt of the Adders.
Unver smiled. “It is a way of speaking, only. I am not feared to shed blood. Any who know me can give witness.”
“I saw Unver Shan kill many stonedwellers,” said Fremur. “Many. He saved a dozen of our kinsmen when armored Nabban-men had trapped them. He fought like Tasdar of the Iron Arm himself.” He was suddenly shamed by his own eager words—he was the youngest thane present and did not want to seem it. “He defeated my brother Odrig, who was bigger than any man here, even though Unver was already tired and hurt from another fight.”
“We all know he is strong—that he can fight,” said one of the other thanes. “We have all heard the stories and we saw him survive what no one else could at Redbeard’s hands.” He turned toward Unver. “But will you fight against your own people? Your father’s people?”
Several of the men stirred, and a few even dropped their hands to their weapons in anticipation of violence.
“That is an ugly question,” said Volfrag, and for the first time Fremur saw a little emotion from the shaman, a spark of anger. Fremur still did not trust the man entirely—Volfrag had moved his wagon very quickly out of Rudur’s paddock, as the old saying went, but he was the most revered of all the grassland shamans; his support of Rudur had been a large part of what had made Redbeard a man to be feared and respected in the first place.
“Peace, Volfrag.” Unver did not seem offended. “The stone-dwellers are not my people,” he said calmly. “I have not lived among them since I was a child. My father, may his name be cursed—I will not utter it—and may the buzzards pick his bones, left our family behind without a word of warning or apology. I owe him and his world nothing.” He held up his hand to forestall anyone else speaking. “But I know the stone-dweller world better than the rest of you. There are more of them than of us, and their castles are not built just to keep out the rain and wind. They have set all those stones together to protect themselves from each other—and from us. Their strong places are strong indeed. Even a great collection of clans would dash themselves against those stone walls in vain.”
“So we should sit like helpless wild dogs while the wolves of Nabban bite away our land, piece by piece?” Etvin of the Wood Ducks spoke with real fury, his voice shaking. “I was born beside Shallow Lake. My family’s grazing land, the place my father tied his horses and built his first wagon, now belongs to a Nabban noble. He chased us away from our own lands like we were rats in a midden.”
“Do not think we will sit helplessly,” said Unver. “But when we strike back at the Nabban-men—and we will strike back, I swear by the Sky-Piercer and the Grass-Thunderer—then the stone-dwellers will send their armored knights and foot soldiers numerous as ants against us. We cannot fight them in the old ways—if we could, why did High King Simon and his men defeat us so easily twenty summers ago, though we had three times their numbers?”
The gathered thanes looked at each other, angry and shamefaced. The memory of that lost war was still painful, even for those who had not fought.
“Because we fought the old way,” continued Unver. “Each man his own thane, with none listening to any other. That is how we were pushed to these empty lands in the long ago, and that is why we will be pushed and pushed farther east by the stone-dwellers of Nabban. Unless we learn to fight back in a different way. Unless we fight as a nation of warriors, not a collection of clans who come together only when they must.”
Several of the thanes gave nods of approval, but others looked doubtful.
“You speak of the High King,” said Anbalt. “Even now, he sits at the gate of our paddock, making demands. It is said you bargain with him, but it is not only the Nabban-men who steal our lands. All along the Umstrejha the Erkynlanders have begun pushing their way into our pastures, our hunting lands. We can scarcely water our horses without having to fight our way through them. And their stone city they call Gadrinsett is growing like a boil. Yet you have said nothing about them.”
All eyes turned to Unver.
“This is what I speak of,” he said. “We men of the grasslands, we are like children, our attention taken by each new thing that happens, forgetting what went before. The High King’s men have come to our lands because they barter with us for one of their nobles. He is an old friend of the king and the queen. They are willing to pay much for him.”
“How much?” asked one of the northern thanes. “And if they pay in gold, how will it be shared? Who captured him?”
Unver stared at him until the man looked down. “Gold? What will gold bring us? Where will we spend it? In the markets of the stone-dwellers, of course, as we always do. No. I want no gold from the High King.”
“Horses?” said another.
“Hah,” said Odobreg. “Horses from Erkynland? I would rather ride sheep like the snow-trolls do than one of those sway-backed, heavy-footed things.”
Unver shook his head. “Not gold, not horses. What we will receive from the High Throne for the return of their valued friend will be agreements. Treaties. We will make them affirm that everything below the Umstrejha is ours.”
Now several of the thanes reacted with open dismay, and Fremur caught Odobreg’s eye, letting him know to be ready in case trouble broke out. “We had treaties after the last war!” Anbalt cried. “Nabban gave us treaties and broke them all!”
“But the High Throne did not,” Unver said. “The king and queen have kept their words.” He laughed, but anger coiled beneath it. “Do not act like fools! Do not think I trust the Erkynlanders to leave us alone forever. Eventually their people will need more room and whether the High Throne wills it or not, the stone-dwellers of Erkynland will turn to our lands. But that will give us time—time to learn to fight against them. And while we have peace with the High Throne, we will make war against the scum of Nabban who think to steal our land without a fight. Would you rather have war at both ends of the Thrithings, north and south? Or would you prefer to be able to fight back against our greater enemies now, and deal with the northern foes later?”
This said, Unver let the thanes murmur among themselves as he stared out into the middle distance. The sun was all but gone now, but its light lingered all along the western horizon like blood seeping into water.
“Here is my word,” he said at last, and the bearded men grew silent, watching him now with something like superstitious awe. Fremur saw that he had done something more than incite them—Unver had made them think. “As of this hour, all private feuds between clans must end. Those who cannot settle them peacefully will bring them to me—to all of us—and a settlement will be reached. We waste no more strength fighting among ourselves.”
“Bring them where?” asked Etvin. “Will you rule from the Crane camp in the south, Unver Shan, or in the north with the Stallions?”
“I will remain here,” Unver said, so calmly it was clear he had already decided. His words sent another stir through the thanes. “This place is sacred to all of us. It is here the spirits chose me. And it is in the center of all our lands—I will not rule as a man of the High Thrithings or any other, but as Shan, and the Spirit Hills will be my clan ground. This stone, the Silent One, will be my seat.”
“I hear the spirits speak through your mouth,” said Volfrag solemnly.
“And I hear hunger growling in my belly,” said Unver. The tall shaman looked offended, but the many of the thanes laughed.
“Come, there is food for you at my camp for all of you—a feast,” Unver said. “My mother herself oversaw the preparations, and if you think I am a frightening enemy, you will not want to offend her hospitality. Let us make our way down the hill and celebrate a new day for the grasslands.” He rose to his feet so easily that anyone but Fremur would have found it impossible to believe how hard it had been for him simply to walk up the hill an hour before.
The thanes, who had waited for him with the faces of men to whom he owed gambling debts, now surrounded him, all seeming eager to walk beside the Shan.
Fremur was willing to give up his place for now. He let himself fall into the rear of the crowd as they walked down the ancient path to where the horses were tethered. He had followed Unver since the first—he had no need to prove anything. And from now on, someone would always have to be watching the Shan’s back.
Eolair had only one light in the cramped confines of the wagon, a small oil lamp, but he had nothing to read so it mattered little.
The fortnight he had been Unver’s captive had passed very slowly. He had written letters to his sister at Nad Mullach and to Inahwen in Hernysadharc— that missive had been kept cautiously free of anything that might excite King Hugh’s distrust—but of course had no way to send them. They waited in his purse, and if things went as well as he hoped, he would be free to hand them over to the High Throne’s royal post himself before too long.
Outside, daylight was fading fast—the bit of sky he could see had turned the purple of ripe grapes—and Eolair was wondering when his evening meal would come when he heard noises outside, grunts and even what sounded like a low cry of pain. He went to the barred opening in the door and looked out, but could see nothing outside but grass and the distant line of the paddock fence. He had just returned to his seat when something thumped hard against the side of the wagon near the door, making him jump in surprise.
He turned, expecting the door to open, but it didn’t happen. He got up again and went quietly toward it. As he reached it, a face suddenly appeared in the opening, bearded and grimacing, flecked with blood, startling him so badly that he stumbled backward and almost fell. The face hung there for a moment, pressed against the bars, then the eyes rolled up until they were only crescents of white and the face fell away.
Eolair stared at the door, heart speeding, as another shape appeared at the barred window, a man-shape that he could not quite make out. The door opened and the slave called Baldhead stepped through into the wagon and pushed the door shut behind him. As he came toward Eolair and the light of the lamp fell on him, the count could see that Baldhead’s hairless face and rough garment of sacking were dotted with blood.
“What is happening?” Eolair did not like the look Baldhead wore, his mouth pulled tight in a grin. “Who was that man whose face I saw at the door?”
“One of the guards.” Baldhead held up a large hunting knife, a formidable blade half a cubit long and smeared with red. “I gutted the first before he knew what was happening, but that second one gave me a bit of a fight before I slit his throat. They forgot that Gezdahn was only a slave for a little while. Before that I was a warrior.” His grin widened. “I still am a warrior. They can tell that to the other men in the lands beyond who I have sent to death over the years.”
Eolair had very little room to maneuver. He backed away until he stood at the far end of the wagon, beside the flimsy cot on which he had sat and the shelf with the small lamp. “Gezdahn? Is that your real name?”
“It does not matter,” the bloody man said. “Not to you, Herynstirman. You can call me what you like . . . when you reach the other side.” Baldhead lifted the knife and held it before him. Eolair had nothing with which to defend himself except his trembling fists.
If you remember nothing else from the days when you took lives, he told himself, remember not to be frightened.
He briefly considered throwing the lamp, hoping the oil was hot enough to burn his enemy, but evening had fallen outside and the idea of fighting an armed man in a dark wagon did not appeal. Instead he began grabbing for whatever might come to hand, but the wagon had been stripped to make it a cell for him, and all his hands closed on was his threadbare blanket. He wrapped it around his forearm just as Baldhead lunged, and the first thrust tore through the blanket. Eolair felt a hot-cold sting along his skin but he had kept the blade away from his body. He did not think he could manage to do it much longer—Baldhead was bigger and younger than he was.
“Why are you doing this?” Eolair cried, more to distract his enemy than out of actual curiosity—the light of madness was in the man’s eyes. “I have done nothing to you.” He managed to work the cot away from the wall with his foot, and now shoved it between the two of them. “Unver will kill you if you harm me.”
“I will not be here for that mongrel to kill.” Baldhead made a lazy swipe with the knife toward Eolair’s face. “But when you die, your king will blame him, and will make war on him. The stone-dwellers will come to avenge you, then Unver and his motherless followers will die as well.”
Eolair saw blood was dripping from beneath the blanket on his arm. He shoved the bed hard against the other man’s knees, making his enemy stumble backward a step, but he was still trapped against the wall and Baldhead recovered quickly.
One of the women had left a broom in a corner when cleaning the wagon, and though it was a poor thing made of sticks, Eolair snatched it up and jabbed at Baldhead’s eyes, hoping to confuse him long enough to get around him and make a dash for the door. But the Thrithings-man was an experienced fighter and guessed what he planned; he ignored the broom and took a step to the side to block Eolair’s escape. “Enough,” Baldhead said. “Enough playing. You waste my time, old man.” He reached down and grabbed the cot, then flipped it at Eolair, who was hit across the mouth by one of the legs and fell backward with the cot on top of him.
Brynioch of the Skies, forgive your erring son, was his only thought.
Muddled by the blow to his face, he heard something crash and thought Baldhead had kicked the bed away, but then realized he was still caught beneath it. When the fatal blow did not fall, he began kicking his way loose, certain each moment that he would feel the knife enter his flesh. When he was free he looked up from the floor and saw Baldhead was no longer looking at him. The door of the wagon was open and a figure stood there, dimly illuminated by the dancing, windblown flame of the lamp.
“For the love of God,” the newcomer said, “the hairless fellow only has a knife. Olveris, throw him your sword.”
Another figure now climbed the steps to the doorway behind him, looming a good head higher than the first. “Go fuck yourself, Astrian.” He saw Eolair where he crouched on the floor in the splayed wreckage of the cot. “My apologies, Count. Futústite, Astrian. I’m not giving some grass-eater my sword.”
“Then it will have to be knives,” said the short man with a sigh; he sheathed his own long blade before drawing a dirk from his sleeve. Eolair could only stare at this madness, half-certain the fall had disordered his wits, but Baldhead let out an angry growl and leaped toward the short one, the big knife flashing in the lamplight.
As swiftly as a frog catching a fly, Astrian’s hand snapped out as the hunting knife came down, and his dagger pierced the Thrithings-man’s wrist. Baldhead let out a high-pitched shriek of pain, but managed to hit out with his other hand and connect with his enemy’s face, making Astrian stumble backward. Baldhead stood, panting, clutching his wrist as it bubbled blood between his fingers.
“Stone-dweller pigs!” he snarled.
“Try to make it a fair fight, what do I get? Insults.” Astrian kicked out and caught the Thrithings-man in the knee, then ducked a flailing swipe of the long knife and drove hard into the man’s body, pushing Baldhead back against the wall so that the whole wagon shook. When he stepped back, Baldhead dropped his knife and looked down at the wound in his stomach, which was only beginning to drizzle red, then he slid down the wall to sit on the floor, still staring at his own belly as the light went out of his eyes.
“Much help you were,” said Astrian to his tall companion.
“You wanted to make it a fair fight.”
“What are you doing here?” Eolair demanded, struggling to his feet. “I know you—I’ve seen you both at the Hayholt. But what in the name of Rhynn’s shining daughter are you doing here?”
“Not exactly falling over himself to thank us, is he?” Astrian said. “We are here to save you, Count Eolair. Sir Olveris and I apologize if we interrupted you in the middle of something more important.”
Eolair looked down at the dead Thrithings-man. “Leave me your knife and get out of here. I’ll tell Unver I did it myself. He wants to negotiate with the High Throne and if you are caught here it will ruin everything!”
Astrian pursed his lips. “I think it is a bit late for that, Your Lordship. You might explain the dead man in here, but there are two more dead men and a spilled supper tray outside. No, you must come with us—we are rescuing you whether you want it or not. When we all get back to camp you will see things differently.”
“Are you mad? Unver had agreed to barter me back. He wants peace.” Eolair shook his head angrily. “He did want peace. Only the gods know what he will want now. Who sent you?”
“Duke Osric,” said Astrian. “And you may argue the merits of all this with His Grace. But if you do not come with us peacefully, my lord, I am afraid we will have to tie you up and take you unwilling.”
“Ask him about the prince,” said Olveris, who seemed to be a man of many fewer words than his companion.
“Ah, yes. Is it true that Prince Morgan is not here with the Thrithings-men? Or was that doddering fool Porto wrong about that, too? He managed to send us a league out of our way as it was.”
Eolair still could not believe this was happening—it felt like a fever dream. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but Morgan was never here. He escaped back into the forest before I was taken.”
“Ah. Too bad.” Astrian gestured to the door. “Shall we go?”
Eolair allowed himself to be led out of the wagon. The short one was right—it would be hard to explain the two dead guards outside the wagon to a crowd of Thrithings-men already full of hate toward outsiders. Even if Unver believed his story, the Shan might find it hard to convince his underlings. Besides, there was still something Eolair could do that might make all this bloody mess worthwhile.
As soon as he stepped off the stairs and over the body of the guard Baldhead had killed, Eolair immediately headed toward the tents at the other side of the compound. A second body lay not far away, another bearded corpse. This one had fallen with the prisoner’s supper tray still in his hand.
“Hai, where are you going, my lord?” Astrian asked, as if Eolair was a wayward child. “Our horses are over there, in the trees.”
“If you interfere with me, sir, you will have to kill me. And the king and queen will have your skins. I know what I’m doing. Either follow and keep your mouths shut or start a fight and have grasslanders all over us in an instant.” He looked around. “Where have they all gone?”
Astrian hurried his pace to keep up. “They are putting on some kind of feast in the setta over there. That is why we thought the time is good. And many of the men are gone somewhere.”
“We are going the wrong direction,” said Olveris, who had not sped his pace and was falling farther behind.
Eolair ignored them both and hurried across the grass toward the great tent. He could hear voices from within, and when he pushed his way through he saw a large group of women and a few old men, all busy preparing food and drink to be carried out to the field. In the center, with the clear look of a commanding officer, stood the short-haired figure of Vorzheva, Prince Josua’s wife, just as he had hoped. Eolair hurried toward her.
“Vorzheva!” he cried. “Lady Vorzheva!”
One of the other women let out a cry and dropped a serving tray—Hyara, whom he had not seen in his first look. “Eolair?” she said. “By the Grass Thunderer, what are you doing here? You are bloody!”
He did not look at her, but went right to Vorzheva, who was shaking her head as if she thought she dreamed. “Lady Vorzheva,” he said, “I know you know me. I am Count Eolair of Nad Mullach, and I was one of your husband’s close allies. Simon and Miriamele, the high king and high queen, have been searching for you for years. Come with me. Your friends have been looking for you—and for Josua, too. Where is he?”
Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. She threw her own tray on the floor with a loud crash. “Know you? I know you are one of them. I know you are one of those who tried to take him away. Get out of here. I would never go with you. I spit on your king and queen.”
“She doesn’t seem to want to come,” said Astrian. “Did you notice that?”
Some of the others in the tent had run out, one of the women bumping into Olveris who had just arrived, surprising both. Eolair knew it was only moments before she or someone else summoned help. “Please, Vorzheva. I have been looking for you since I was brought here. Just come and speak to the king and queen. They will honor you! They will send you back here with gifts—they only want to speak to you!”
Vorzheva turned and snatched a knife up from the table, not as long as Baldhead’s had been but still a wicked blade, something meant to cut meat. “I will stab you if you touch me. Go on, city-man, run away before my son comes to kill you.”
Eolair was desperate now; he took another step toward her, never taking his eye off the knife. Vorzheva was thin but not frail, and he wondered whether he could twist the knife away before she could do him any real harm.
“Perhaps put your thoughts in a letter, instead, my lord,” said Astrian, but the alarm in his voice was clear. “I think I hear people shouting.”
Eolair lunged forward, hoping to catch Vorzheva’s arm before she could cut him badly, then wrestle her out of the tent, but she had already reacted, darting the long blade toward the count’s midsection. Something moved suddenly between them.
“No!” Hyara cried as she pushed her way between them. “Vorzheva, don’t!”
It was too late—the blade had already plunged into flesh, taking Hyara high on the chest. She took another step, then stumbled and fell to the floor, blood darkening the front of her dress.
A hand closed on Eolair’s arm and yanked him backward. Vorzheva threw herself on her knees at Hyara’s side, weeping and shrieking with rage, calling down vengeance in the Thrithings-tongue in a voice too maddened for Eolair to understand.
“We must run, now,” Astrian said as he shoved Eolair toward the door of the tent.
“Hyara!” Vorzheva shrieked. “No! I will kill them all!”
Olveris was already outside, waving them on. Now Eolair could hear noises from all directions. He realized what he had done and his knees went weak, but Astrian held him up until Olveris could help take his weight, then they hurried him across the paddock toward the dark shadow of the trees.
“You saved me.” Levias tried to sit up, but it was still painful for him and he slumped back onto his pallet. “God be praised—and may He preserve you especially, Porto. You saved my life.”
“To be fair, it was a Thrithings-man who saved your life—a shaman fellow called Ruzhvang. Do you remember him?”
Levias shook his head. “No, but I bless him too. And your friends. I remember them.”
Porto remembered riding the balking mule back to camp behind Astrian and Olveris, both on horseback. “Yes,” he said a little sourly. “God bless them too.”
“Our Lord Usires has a plan for me—I feel it.” Levias reached out and took Porto’s hand. “And for you, too, my friend. That is why He spared our lives when we were among the grasslanders. God the Father has work in store for us both, holy work. I will spread His name with joy and thankfulness.”
Porto nodded. “God was good to us both. It is surprising, because I have not been His most dutiful son.”
“He forgives all,” Levias said, then yawned. “He wants you back, as all fathers want their sons back.”
Porto thought of his own father, a good man despite his faults. “I can believe that. I want to believe that.”
“That is all you have to do.” Levias yawned again. “Our time on earth is short, but our time in the hereafter is long. Do you want to spend it in God’s loving presence or in a darker place?”
“I have kept you awake too long,” Porto said. “I am so happy to see you recovering, but I’m being selfish. You need to rest.”
“Never selfish, my friend.” Levias squeezed his hand. “What you have done for me I will never forget. Neither will God.”
Porto wandered through the camp, waving to those soldiers who hailed him. His return with Levias had been a subject of much talk, and his first nights back he had been given drinks at many campfires, then woke with an aching head and unfamiliar regrets. Was Levias right? Was God trying to tell him that it was time to quit his drunkard’s ways and prepare himself for Heaven? Would he see his dead wife and child again there? And poor Endri, his friend who had died so horribly in the Nornlands?
Astrian and Olveris had vanished again, which meant that he had something like a choice of whether to indulge himself or not, and tonight, after talking to Levias, he was not feeling the urge in quite the same way he ordinarily did. It was still there, of course, the sweet song of wine, the invitation to darkness and oblivion, or at least moderate, thoughtless happiness, but his days trying to get his wounded friend away from the Thrithings encampment had made it all seem different. He could not help remembering the night when Rudur Redbeard had died and the grasslanders had gone mad. Men fighting and killing each other, women dragged into the woods and raped, old blood feuds suddenly sprung to deadly life. It had been like some vision of Hell, like the heedless damned tormenting each other—the Adversary’s demons were not even necessary.
We make our own Hell on Earth, he thought. But the difference was, death would end this Hell. The other one, though, the one that waited for unshriven sinners, not just for murderers but for drunkards and thieves as well, both of which Porto had been—that Hell awaited. And in that Hell, the bleak, terrifying night in the Thrithings camp would last forever.
Porto realized he had wandered near to the edge of the camp, where the Erkynguard had built bulwarks on the banks above the Laestfinger. On the far side of the wide river lay the shadowed, flat emptiness of the High Thrithings. But it was only empty of trees and mountains. Even as he walked along the edge of the barriers he could see grasslanders of the Bison Clan on the far side of the river, carrying torches, hooting and taunting the Erkynguard, sometimes throwing spears that splashed into the river. Once or twice one of them even got off a throw so powerful that a long spear crunched into the sandy bank on the near side of the river.
Somebody hailed him from one of the guard posts and he walked over. The nearest Erkynguardsman offered him a wineskin. The night was cold so Porto took a swig, but the next time it was offered him he waved it off. He could not stop thinking about what Levias had said.
“God’s mercy, here’s that big one again,” said one of the guards. Porto looked up and saw they were all peering over the barrier, across the river. A large shape, monstrously malformed by the flickering light of windblown torches, was loping toward the far side of the river. The spear in his hand disappeared as he threw it, sailing invisibly through the blackness, then it landed with a loud kritch in the sand of the nearer bank.
“He’s going to get one in here before too long, you mark my words,” another soldier said.
“Well, keep your heads down then,” said the sergeant. “Bloody fools.”
But one of the other guards had stood, drawing his bow.
“Hi, there, what are you up to?” the sergeant said. “Put that away or I’ll have you whipped. You want to start something with these mad clansmen?”
“Just wishing I could let him have one,” said the soldier, sighting down his arrow. “Tch! There he is! I’d love to give the big hairy bastard one in the belly.”
“He’s at it again,” someone else said. “Get your heads down!”
Porto was peering between two of the huge logs of the barricades, and saw the giant Thrithings-man had been given another spear, and was starting a run to the edge of the water. A dozen or more other grasslanders trotted beside him, waving torches and bellowing their approval. The big man took a last step, but jerked and stumbled as he released his spear, which wobbled only a short distance and disappeared into the gurgling river. The man who had thrown it took another wobbling step, then slumped to his knees. As the other Thrithings-men gathered around him with their torches, Porto saw a long, feathered shaft sticking out of his belly.
The Erkynguard sergeant had seen it too, and his voice rose to a panicked rasp. “Bloody Tree of the Aedon, Renward, what did you do?”
“It wasn’t me!” the soldier said. “See, it’s still on the string!” He brandished his bow and unshot arrow, as if that would make what had happened go away.
“Sweet Usires, someone did it!” cried the sergeant. “Now we’re in the shit and that’s certain!”
The slain spear-thrower had collapsed to the ground with his comrades milling around him. One of them let out a high-pitched howl of rage that seemed barely human, then waded into the river, spear in one hand, ax in the other, still screaming his anger. The rest of the grasslanders followed him. Within the space of a few dozen heartbeats they had splashed their way across and were running up the bank toward the Erkynlanders’ barricades, waving their torches and shrieking like the tortured souls Porto had been imagining just a short while before.
“Someone blow a horn, for the love of Heaven!” the sergeant shouted. “Raise the alarm! We’re under attack!”
Porto heard the sputtering wail of a horn climb into the air. Within moments it was answered all along the edge of the camp by more horns and the shouts of startled Erkynguards.
“They’re coming! The grasslanders are coming! Every man forward! To arms!”