47. A Duty to Die Well, Empire of Grass

47 A Duty to Die Well

“It is the duty of every nobleman to show lesser men how to meet Death,” Aelin’s father had often said. These words were very much on Aelin’s mind as he and his companions made their way down the hill on the far side from Naglimund, pursued by White Foxes, demons out of old stories.

His father Aerell had not been allowed a glorious death—he had been taken by flux and had died voiding himself from every orifice. But even so, he had done his best to live up to his own credo, refusing anything but water and sending away the priests of Dun who had come to sing prayers over him and daub his face with woad.

“If the gods recognized me in this life, they will not need my face painted blue to know me when my time comes!” he had declared. A fierce man, Aerell had refused to unbend even as death came, and at the end had sent even young Aelin and his mother away because their weeping disturbed him.

Now Aelin had the chance his father had been denied, to die bravely in battle as a lesson for lesser men—but very few lesser men remained. With his squire Jarreth dead in the rubble of Naglimund’s outwall, Aelin had only two companions, Evan the Aedonite and Maccus Blackbeard. The Norn enemies who had followed them out through the shattered wall were close behind, spread out and calling to each other across the hillside with strange, birdlike cries. Only the thickness of the trees prevented the Norns from feathering them with arrows. Evan had already been struck just above the shoulder blade. Maccus had pulled the shaft out again but the youth was bleeding steadily and barely able to stay in his saddle. Aelin knew that soon he and his men would be driven into an open place and then slaughtered.

Through a break in the close-leaning trees below he caught sight of a broken stone tower looming between the trees, and thought he could see tumbled stone walls beyond it. Aelin knew from his great-uncle’s travel tales that ancient ruins lay on the far side of the hills from Naglimund, though he had never seen them; he felt a momentary pulse of hope. If they could find their way through the knotted undergrowth and close-crowding trees they might be able to find somewhere among the broken walls they could make a stand.

“Down there!” he said in an urgent whisper, pointing. “Out of your saddles. Lead your horses and head for the broken stones.”

“That is a heathen place,” said Evan weakly. “An old, Godless place. There is evil there.”

“There is evil behind us,” Aelin reminded him. “And that evil has arrows. I’ll take the ruins. Haste!”

He helped the youth down and took the blood-slicked reins of Evan’s horse. The Hernystirmen stumbled over roots, crashed through blackberry brambles that tore their clothes and skin, and ducked beneath branches that swiped at their faces like witches’ fingers. Aelin could hear cries along the hillside as the Norns hurried to flank them. He led his men and the horses past a wall and into the bracken-choked remnants of an enclosed courtyard, only to discover half a dozen hooded figures waiting for them there with drawn bows.

“Throw down weapons!” said the tallest of these. His Westerling was crude but still understandable, his voice strangely hushed.

Aelin readied himself to charge, but young Evan, weak with loss of blood, swayed and then collapsed to the ground beside him. Maccus, seeing it was hopeless, bent over and gasped for breath, his sword-point drooping toward the damp ground.

“Throw down weapons,” the leader said, more harshly. “And quiet.”

The birdlike calls passed by in the near distance. A few heartbeats later, Aelin heard answering calls, but these came from even farther down the hillside; they became fainter even as he listened.

He was not certain what was happening. He looked at Maccus, then at Evan where he lay senseless on the ground, rain running down his pale face. “Very well,” he said, and dropped his blade. “Spare my men and you may do as you wish with me.”

“We will do what we wish to all of you,” the tall one said. “The decision is not yours to make.” He threw back his hood to reveal the narrow, high-boned face and uptilted eyes of one of the immortals, though his skin did not have the corpselike pallor that Aelin had expected: this was not a Norn, but a Sitha. His face was hard, his mouth tight-lipped like a carved figure of one of Hernystir’s old, grim gods, and his short hair was speckled white and black. “But our task is not to harm you. Rather, we must bring you to our mistress. She was told by our scouts that mortals were pursued by Hikeda’ya.” Their captor tapped himself on the chest. “I am called Liko the Starling. You are prisoners, now. If you make noise or try to run, it will go badly for you.”

Aelin was confounded. “It seems we have no choice. But who is your mistress, that she cares what happens to mortals like us?”

“It is not for me to say what her cares might be,” the Sitha with white and black hair replied. “All I know is that the mistress of high and ancient Anvijanya told me to find you and bring you to her. Save your questions, mortal. I will not answer them.”

The river was full of Thrithings-men, howling like wolves as they splashed toward the Erkynguard camp. Some of them had brought their horses and used them to keep from being swept away by the sluggish but strong current. The swiftest of the grasslanders had already reached the pits and sharpened stakes that served as the camp’s outermost barrier, and were hacking their way through the stakes with their axes.

All over the camp the alarm was spreading. Erkynlandish soldiers came running, most without armor, or with only a helmet, some not even carrying weapons but only what they had been able to snatch up when they heard the sentries’ cries—sticks, stones, even iron spits from the camp cookfires.

Porto was terrified for Levias, but before he could turn back toward the tent where his wounded friend was recovering, a bearded clansman came shouting over the low wall, quickly followed by several more. Several Erkynlanders beside Porto were still fitting arrows on bowstrings and were unprepared to defend themselves. Porto was grateful he had been wearing his sword, but did not think he could do much except be hacked to pieces trying to protect his fellows.

Too old, too tired, too many days in the wilderness, he thought, but managed to sink his first two-handed swipe into the leg of a grasslander who was doing his best to murder the guard sergeant. The Thrithings-man, who had pinned the sergeant’s sword with his hilt, now turned on Porto, his paint-daubed face stretched in a terrible mask of pain and fury. As he lifted an ax to strike back, the guard sergeant finally managed to draw his poniard and shove it into the man’s side, then stabbed him twice more in the ribs as the grasslander staggered and dropped to his knees.

The sergeant kicked the man in the head with a muddy boot and the Thrithings-man fell to the ground and lay still.

“We need more men!” the sergeant said. “They are climbing over their own dead to get across the wall here.”

Porto was already out of breath, but he could see that the sergeant was right: the fence of stout logs had been built around a great chunk of stone in the riverbank, a slab of rock bigger than a wagon bed, and because they could not dig through it or set fence posts in it, the engineers had left an inward angle in the barrier. The guards on either side had moved in to defend that angle, but the grasslanders had recognized a weak spot and were beginning to swarm toward it in numbers. But that was not the only danger. The barbarians coming up out of the river were loosing arrows and spears. Even as Porto looked to either side to see where help might come from, one of the guards beside him fell back with an arrow in his face, shrieking like a scalded child.

“Here, men!” shouted the sergeant. “Erkynlanders, to me! Here, and push the bastards back!”

Those who could hear him rallied to the wall. Porto did not have time now to think about his aching limbs, about Levias helpless in the tent, about lost Prince Morgan or anything else. Bulky shapes in animal skins clambered over the barrier, bearded faces that screeched like demons swarming toward him out of the darkness and rain. He set his shoulder against the sergeant’s and did what he had to do.

Time passed for the aged knight, not as in a nightmare, but as in a fever dream, a great sliding jumble of confused impressions. The grinning, painted faces seemed endless—surely every Thrithings-man in the north was attacking the camp! For a little while the attacking grasslanders flowed over the wall like a wave overtopping a dyke, and Porto was separated from the sergeant and all those on his right side. He heard a chorus of shouting behind him, though he did not dare look to see what was happening; moments later the Thrithings-men who had forced their way past him came staggering back, tripping over each other as they retreated. Porto stabbed one in the side with the point of his sword but the bearded wild man seemed barely to notice, because a great shoving mass of armored Erkynlanders was forcing the invaders back against the barrier. A moment finally came when Porto could look up as these new troops hacked their way through the barbarians, and what he saw gladdened his heart.

It was Duke Osric himself leading a crowd of new Erkynguards wielding long pikes. Most of the Thrithings-men had thrown their spears already; few of them could stand against the surging mass of helmeted soldiers. Osric stood tall in their midst, though he alone was not wearing a helmet. The duke’s hair was flattened against the sides of his head by the rain, his bald crown gleaming wet. He jabbed his spear over and over into the mass of retreating Thrithings-men, who were being pushed back against their own fellow warriors; every time he pulled it away, blood ran black from the leaf-shaped spearhead. Osric’s face was a mask of pure fury, his eyes so wide Porto could see the whites of them even through the rain and darkness.

He looked, Porto thought, like one of the old gods of the past, before the Aedon came to make mankind gentle. A warrior god who would punish all who came against his people with blood and fire. It was only later, when he had time to consider it, that Porto thought there had been more than anger in the duke’s face. There had been a kind of madness there, too, one that would not be quenched by a single battle.

The attack failed at last. Once the Erkynguards were roused they were too many for the grasslanders, who fell back and ran toward the river. Several floundered and were shot down, but the rest fled back across the night-dark grasses toward the trees and their camp.

The fighting finally over, Porto drank water until he thought he might be sick, then went to find Levias. His friend was safe and had slept through it all, thinking it another fever dream. Together they offered God their thanks, then Porto went out again, so weary he could barely stand.

As the first of dawn’s light turned the horizon first a smoky violet, then pink, and the sky began to whiten, Porto trudged across the camp. The rains had finally ended. Water ran everywhere in muddy rivulets, making wider and wider flows as they joined and continued toward the river below, so that in a few places Porto had to wade through ankle-high streams to make his way. Bodies were already being dragged from the places of fighting beside the fence, some of them so trampled in black muck that they did not look human. He was told that perhaps four score of dead Thrithings-men remained in the camp, but that not even a quarter that many Erkynguardsmen had fallen. The soldiers who gave him this news seemed to think this something to celebrate, but Porto knew otherwise. The grasslanders who had attacked the camp had not been prepared for war. Few of the mounted ones had even reached the walls, so the barbarians had mostly been fighting on foot, and almost none of the corpses wore armor. Yes, the Erkynguard had repelled the attack, but it had been a chance battle, not real warfare, and Porto’s side had been in a fortified position on the high ground.

They do not understand the savagery of these folk, he thought. They do not guess at the numbers of them who live on these wild plains. His mood was dark. Perhaps I am too old for fighting, he thought. Perhaps I am just too old.

Near the center of the camp he found Duke Osric and his knight-officers in counsel beside a high, roaring fire. Someone recognized Porto as having been close to the spot where the attack began, and he was called over to tell his story. But when he told of the arrow that had flown from somewhere in the camp—the arrow that had started the battle—Osric seemed to dismiss it as of little account.

“Daily the barbarians have thrown spears and flown arrows against our barricades,” the duke said, then drank deeply from the goblet in his hand. He still wore his armor, which was heroically bespattered in blood and mud. “As if it were some festival.” He spat. “It was only a matter of time until someone returned the favor. These folk are savages, and savages only understand one thing—a fist of iron.” He lifted his own gauntleted hand as if to demonstrate, then brought it down hard on the log he had chosen as his seat. “We came in peace, as the king ordered. Now we will show them what it means to bargain in bad faith.” Duke Osric’s cheeks were full of color, though the battle had ended at least an hour earlier. Porto, who had swallowed nothing but water, could not help thinking the duke was more than a little drunk.

Walking along the perimeter of the camp, watching men putting things to right after the battle and the heavy rains, he saw a group of guardsmen gathered around a pair of new arrivals at the gate opposite the river. He was still a good distance away when he recognized the short one on horseback.

Astrian sat high in the saddle like a triumphant general accepting accolades from his men. Olveris stood beside his own horse, but that was because another man was in his saddle, a thin figure in torn, soiled clothes.

“Ho, look, it is our old friend!” Astrian cried as Porto approached. “We hear you have won a fierce battle here, but we ourselves have not been idle! See, we have brought someone to the feast you might recognize—Count Eolair, the High Throne’s lord steward!”

The slumped, frail-seeming figure was indeed Eolair, Porto saw, but thought the count did not look as much like a rescued man as like someone who was still a prisoner. The Hernystirman’s gaunt face was days unshaven and his dark-circled eyes had the stare of someone who no longer cared where he was or where he was going.

“Astrian did it all by himself,” said Olveris with heavy mockery. “Ask him. I do not think I was even in the same country.”

“And Porto fought in a war!” Astrian’s good cheer was undaunted. “I am sure that just like you, my terse friend, he acquitted himself bravely from a safe place in the rear guard.”

“You see, he does not change,” said Olveris, but Porto could not take his eyes from the count. Eolair was at least as old as Porto, and every line in his face showed it. He looked as though he could barely sit straight and his stare was fixed on nothing, as though he had seen too much of the world and its ways.

“I am glad you two have returned,” Porto said. “And you, my lord Eolair. We all give thanks to God for your safe return.” He bowed to the count, then turned and began walking away toward the tent where Levias waited.

“Stop!” said Astrian. “We have much celebrating to do! We will open a jug of the duke’s brandy. Where do you go?”

“To my bed,” he said without turning. “Usires Aedon give you all health.”

Dismayed in ways he could not fully understand, Porto made his way back across the camp, walking slowly, feeling every ache now that his blood had calmed. When he reached the tent he found the wounded knight was asleep again, resting peacefully, a Tree on a leather cord clutched in his fist. Porto curled his long limbs so that he could lie down across the base of Levias’ pallet. As soon as he put his head on his arm, sleep took him suddenly and utterly, like a river pike swallowing an unsuspecting fish.

Fremur stared down at Hyara’s face. It was pale as eggshells, pale as boiled bones. An hour before she had been flushed with fever, turning, panting for breath. Now she was as white and clammy as the woman Fremur had once seen pulled from the waters of a deep pool in the Varn, a sodden corpse the color of a fish’s belly. Only the slow movement of Hyara’s breast as it rose and fell kept rage from utterly consuming him.

“How does she fare?” Unver’s face as always gave little away, but his clenched fists showed white at the knuckles. “Can you save her, Volfrag?”

The shaman spread his thick hands in a show of blamelessness, though the turn of his mouth seemed to show a dislike of being questioned even by his master. “It is up to the spirits, Great Shan. The wound to her chest has let in evil essences, and she fights for her life against them. Only the Ones Above can help her now. I have prayed to them all, especially the Grass Thunderer, spirit of her clan.”

“Pray harder. And say a prayer for whoever did this as well,” Unver said.

Hyara’s sister, Unver’s mother Vorzheva, gave Volfrag a look that had little sympathy or approval in it. She had sent all but a few of her female servants away and taken charge of her sister’s healing, guarding Hyara like a mother fox standing over a wounded cub. “It was Eolair and the treacherous stone-dwellers,” she said. “I told you. I would not let them take me, then Hyara was stabbed instead when she tried to protect me.”

Unver gave her a curiously dispassionate look. “If they were trying to take you to their king and queen, as you say, why would they strike at you with a knife?”

Vorzheva did not look up, wiping moisture from her sister’s brow. “How should I know? They are mad, all of them. Eolair and his soldiers tried to steal me away. Only a madman would do that. Why would they want an old woman as a prisoner?”

Fremur felt sure he knew. “To make the Shan helpless,” he said. “The count thought to hold you prisoner, then force us to do as the stone-dwellers wished.”

“Perhaps.” Unver did not seem interested in more talk. He nodded briefly toward his mother, then rose. Volfrag remained, praying over Hyara, but Fremur followed him out of the tent. It is strange, he thought, that the Shan does not call Vorzheva ‘mother,’ and seldom even by her name. The woman who birthed him! Vorzheva was the daughter of a powerful thane, even if Fikolmij had been much disliked, and she had also been the wife of a powerful stone-dweller prince, which surely lessened the shame of Unver’s mixed blood. Yet still there was some uncrossable distance between the two of them that Fremur could not understand. Unver showed Vorzheva respect—he had given her servants and everything else she might desire—but he never seemed comfortable with her.

“What do we do?” Fremur asked as they walked.

“Talk to the other thanes. Have you forgotten they are waiting for us?”

“No. But I do not know what there is to talk about. Your mother’s sister was attacked and lies near death! Have you no feeling?”

Unver walked on for several paces before speaking. “What feeling should I have? Anger? I have that in plenty. I thought Eolair different from other stone-dwellers. My father talked of him when I was a child, and once told me, ‘There is no man I would trust beyond Count Eolair.’ But he has betrayed all trust.”

“Then let us punish him! Let us punish all the stone-dwellers. Even now their king has sent his men to sit on the edge of our lands and dictate terms to us, as if we were children, even while he schemed to rob us of our honorable ransom. Let us go and take iron and fire to their camp. Let us show them what true men are like.”

Again Unver was silent for a time. Fremur could now see Odobreg and the other thanes waiting for the Shan, all of them standing around a great fire which had been built against the chill of the gray morning.

“You seem much concerned with the life of my mother’s sister, Fremur,” Unver said at last. “Is this all to honor me? Or is there something else behind it?”

Fremur felt himself flush, and hoped his already wind-burned cheeks did not show it. “Should I not fear for the loss of your mother’s sister at the hands of the city-men?”

Unver only raised an eyebrow, then looked out toward the campfire.

“Very well, I will say it,” Fremur finally said. He did not know why it seemed so hard, but he had to swallow before he spoke. “She is a good woman and did not deserve this.”

“I agree,” said Unver, still staring fixedly ahead. “But still I think you hold back some truth.”

“I care for her. Is that what you wish to hear? I care for Hyara. I planned to ask you to give her to me . . . I mean in honorable marriage,” he added hurriedly. “By the Sky-Piercer, you cannot believe I would mean it any other way.”

For a moment, Unver’s stern mouth showed a trace of amusement. “I thought nothing else. But she is much older than you, Fremur. Nearly twice your age. She is not likely to give you sons—or even daughters.”

“I care not.” And it was true, he realized. So many years under his brother’s unpleasant rule, and all that time he had wanted only escape from Odrig’s heavy hand. But suddenly the world seemed full of other possibilities. What mattered sons of his own when the Crane Clan was his? When soon the Children of the Grass would take back the lands they had been driven from in the distant, dark past? What need would he have for sons when all would remember his name—Fremur, the great lieutenant of Unver Shan?

As if he had guessed at the grandness of Fremur’s thoughts Unver shook his head, but said only, “You speak truth. She is a good woman. And if you wish to make her your wife, and she will have you, I will grant it.”

Fremur almost asked why what Hyara wanted should come into it, then remembered how his brother Odrig had given his sister Kulva—Unver’s love—to another man. It was a wound that had still not healed, Fremur sensed, and kept his peace.

If only Hyara lives! he thought. Then my happiness will be complete. But it did not heal the cold, heavy place in his stomach, the knot of fear that she would die.

The thanes had been watching their approach, and now came forward to greet them.

“How is your mother’s sister,” asked Odobreg. “Does she live?”

“Yes,” Unver answered.

“No thanks to the stone-dwellers,” Fremur added. “How can they call themselves men, who would strike a helpless woman with a knife?”

“Especially with my mother’s own knife,” said Unver, but so quietly only Fremur seemed to hear him. Not certain what the Shan meant, he could only wonder if he had heard him correctly.

“And what will we do?” asked Etvin, thane of the Wood Ducks. “They have sent armed men not just across the river, but all the way to Blood Lake. They have struck at our heart. Only the spirits can now prevent it from being the most treacherous murder ever done.”

“She will live,” said Fremur, surprised to hear the sudden anger in his own voice. “She will live.”

As some of the thanes looked at him warily, Unver motioned them all to sit around the fire.

“Let us talk now of the things we must,” he said. “Let us talk of insults, of blood, and of vengeance.”

Despite his hard words, Fremur thought Unver showed a strange reluctance to ride against the stone-dwellers. He did not want to question the Shan at such a time, but the other thanes more than made up for Fremur’s silence.

“Surely Odobreg is right,” said Anbalt now. “At the least, we must catch this Eolair before he is able to return in triumph to the Erkynlanders camp beside the Fingerlest.”

Unver looked at him, eyes half-closed as though he had grown weary of all the talk. “Do you think I did not send men after them as soon as I heard?” he asked. “Do you think I am a fool?”

“No, Great Shan.” Anbalt would not meet his eye. “Never.”

“Then know that I sent Wymunt of the Bustard Clan and a dozen of his riders after them. For all we know, they may have caught the stone-dwellers already. That is one reason I feel no haste to decide. If they return with him, things are much the same as they were.”

“Except that he tried to kill your aunt!” said Fremur.

Unver looked at him impatiently. “There are still things I do not know, and this is no mere grassland feud . . .”

“Who is that?” said one of the thanes, staring out across the northern plain. “Look! A rider comes.”

They all rose to look. Fremur, who was the youngest and proud of his eyes, said, “He wears tipped feathers.”

“One of Wymunt’s troop,” said Odobreg. “Perhaps they have caught the stone-dwellers.”

They stood and watched horse and man grow larger, until at last he could be seen clearly.

“That is young Harat,” said Odobreg. “Hard to say who looks wearier, him or the horse.”

The rider reached them and swung out of the saddle, landing on both feet. “Hail, Unver Shan!” he said. “Wymunt sent me because I am the fastest rider.”

“Your horse is the fastest,” said Odobreg. “I should know—I sold him to you.”

Harat frowned at him but would not be distracted. “The Erkynlanders have attacked the Bison at the Fingerlest River,” he said. “They have killed two hundred of the clansmen, it is said.”

The thanes all burst into talk at the same time, angrily demanding details and cursing the stone-dwellers. “I do not think there are two hundred men in all the Bison clan,” said Unver, but Fremur could hear a deep anger beneath his words.

The youth was not cowed. “There were Sparrowhawk and Whipsnake clansmen camped with them, someone said, bartering for brides. Perhaps some of those were killed as well. I tell you only what Thane Wymunt bid me tell you, Great Shan.”

“How did it happen?” Unver demanded.

“I did not hear the full tale told, but what I heard from others is that the Bisons were testing their arms, throwing spears and shooting arrows toward the stone-dwellers’ camp. It was in fun, and it had been going on for days. Then the soldiers shot several of them dead. The rest of the men charged the camp and there was much fighting.”

“Did they drive the Erkynlanders back from the river?” asked one thane eagerly.

Harat gave him a pitying look. “They were thousands. Against them, only a few hundred Bisons.”

“Of which nearly every one was killed?” asked Unver.

The young man shrugged. “All I know is that the thane of the Bison Clan has lost two sons and he is full of rage. Thane Wymunt sends to ask what you will do, Great Shan. Because if you will not come to the Bisons’ aid, their thane says he will pursue his vengeance alone.”

“It is not meet that a single thane should dictate to the Shan,” said Odobreg, but Unver raised a hand to still him.

“Call the thanes, all that are in a day or two’s journeying,” he said. “Bring them here. We will ride to the Fingerlest. If the stone-dwellers have indeed done this, then it will go badly for them.”

“Why do you say ‘if’?” Fremur demanded, and then saw the eyes of the others, shocked that he would question his lord. “I am sorry if I speak out of turn, Unver Shan, but what more do you need to hear? Your mother’s sister stabbed, your prisoner stolen before he can be ransomed—and now this? The king of Erkynland laughs at us.”

For a moment Fremur thought that the look on Unver’s face was meant for him, and felt his blood curdle in his veins. To his relief, he realized a moment later that he was wrong, that the ferocious scowl betokened something else entirely. “Does he? Then we will see if he still laughs when the bodies of the Erkynlandish dead lie piled as high as their stone houses.” He turned to the other thanes and threw off his cloak, revealing his armored shirt of leather and steel. Fremur thought the large, square plates looked like the scaly back of a Varn crocodile. The stone-dwellers have wakened a monster, he thought, but instead of triumph he felt a sudden uneasiness.

“If the city-men think to treat us like animals, then they will feel our teeth.” Unver’s eyes had narrowed to slits and his long, scarred face was terrible to see. He pulled his curved sword from its scabbard, then held it up against the pale sky. “Bring me my battle paint,” he cried in a voice as chill and fierce as the worst night of winter. “Bring all the horses and call the thanes together! We have been attacked. Now the men of the grassland empire will go to war!”