*

The Corpseway that ran from Kan Dredar’s market square, past the great trading hall and on up the long ramp to the gates of Ragnor oc Gyre’s castle was living up to its name. Evenly spaced along its length were forty gibbets, a score on either side. Each bore a naked corpse. Crows and ravens lifted casually into the air as Theor’s party approached, then settled back to their stubborn, patient work upon the frozen bodies. Theor glanced out from his litter. His bearers were tiring and their pace had slowed. The snow was thinner on the road than elsewhere, but churned into ruts and ridges by the constant passage of wheel and hoof, it made for hard work. The sight of the exemplary dead along the road did not greatly interest him. A great many were coming to their end this winter. Such times, periods when death gorged itself, came now and again, in the form of war or disease or famine. As if this failing world strove vainly to cleanse itself. He grunted and sank back against his chair. His difficulty was that what was happening now felt entirely unlike cleansing to him. Quite the reverse, in fact. He felt the ground rising. He could hear the bearers gasping for breath as they laboured up the incline towards Ragnor’s stronghold. A horn blew somewhere within the outer palisade. It irritated him, if only because he could imagine Ragnor, alerted by that signal, already rehearsing his false friendship, his offhand threats. Theor leaned out once more, and shouted towards the troop of Battle Inkallim riding ahead. “Quicker! I grow cold.” There were forty of them up there, and another sixty riding two abreast behind. All were dressed for war, in cuirasses of rigid black leather, carrying raven pennants and lances. Their horses were the finest left in Nyve’s capacious stables. An impressive sight, but in truth Theor and Nyve alike had hoped for a still more assertive display of the Battle’s strength. Nothing, it seemed, was fated to follow the course mere mortals might hope for in these times. Wild Tarbains, unyoked to the creed, had been raiding out of the Tan Dihrin; two hundred Inkallim had been sent to quell this resurgence of the tribesmen’s long-quiescent martial ardour. In the disputed pine forests between Gaven-Gyre and Wyn-Gyre lands, woodsfolk had started bloody feuds; another hundred of Nyve’s swords had departed to impose a peace the rival Thanes seemed reluctant, or unable, to enforce. It all left Theor with a lesser escort than he had anticipated, but that disappointment he could easily accommodate. What he found troubling was the pattern of it all, the constant sense of incipient, aimless chaos. He was shaken uncomfortably from side to side as his litter-bearers struggled to keep up with the riders ahead. Another of the roadside corpses swung across his rocking field of vision. These grim ornaments that Ragnor had hung along his road were another token of insidious decay. Three riots there had now been in Kan Dredar. None of them difficult for the High Thane’s warriors to put down; all of them surprising. Such rebellious, rampant demonstrations were unusual amongst the Bloods of the Black Road. Internecine violence was far from unknown, but these random eruptions of mindless strife were something new. Could this be what the Kall felt like? Did the fated, promised destruction of this world begin in petty violence and murder? Mobs in the street, a na’kyrim raising himself up out of the chaos in the south? The wooden gate in the palisade stood open. Behind it was a great ditch. Nyve’s ravens clattered across the bridge that led to the inner, stone gatehouse. Theor closed his eyes briefly, willing his mind to clear itself of doubt and distraction. He did not know quite what to expect from this audience, but recognised that he would be ill prepared to meet it if he could not shed his gnawing uncertainty. He heard the next huge iron gate clank open, and breathed out. He was, he forcefully reminded himself, no child, no callow youth or novice of the creed. He was the First of the Lore. There could be, should be, no one more capable of meeting such turbulent times with resolution. It was difficult, though, when lack of sleep blunted every thought. The gigantic pitched roof of Ragnor’s Great Hall held no snow. Water dripped from its every eave. It would be hot inside, Theor knew as he clambered a little stiffly out from his litter. Ragnor kept his fires burning day and night. The First of the Lore stood before the mighty doors of the hall and stretched, digging his fingers into the muscles at the small of his back. The Battle Inkallim arrayed themselves across the hard earthen courtyard. He glanced at them, and adjudged them suitably stern and ordered. They made tidy ranks, and maintained a meticulous silence. A valuable demonstration for the dozens of Ragnor’s warriors who had gathered to watch that there were some, amidst the chaos, who still understood and practised discipline. Ragnor’s silver-haired Master of the Hall came down the steps from the doorway to greet Theor, his fluid movements belying his advanced age. Theor suppressed a momentary twinge of jealousy. His own bones seemed to carry the clear memory, and weight, of every year he had lived. He made a point of ascending the steps slowly, with dignity, as he was ushered within. Three great open hearths lay down the centre of the Great Hall. Fires roared in them, sending smoke billowing up into the roofspace, coiling its way around the multitudinous interwoven rafters. The fumes and the heat stung Theor’s eyes at first. He blinked and wrinkled his nose as he advanced towards the platform at the far end of the hall. All the benches and couches and rugs he passed by were unoccupied. This was unusual. More often than not, a good proportion of the High Thane’s household could be found in here, whether or not their presence was needful or useful. Theor glanced up at the antlers and bearskins that adorned the walls. Ragnor oc Gyre was a man who liked to hunt, and many of these trophies were his own. The greatest of them, though—a vast splayed set of many-tined antlers that put Theor in mind of a pair of gigantic needle-clawed hands—were a legacy of the High Thane’s grandfather, who had won them after a hunt that famously had lasted a full day. The huge stag that once bore them had been a beast of some superstitious import to the Tarbains whose territories it roamed, and its death had done as much to subdue them as any number of burned villages and executed chieftains. A good day’s work in the service of the creed, that had been. Better than any Theor could remember Ragnor performing. He cleared his throat, trying to cough away the dry taste of smoke, as he drew near the group assembled around the High Thane’s empty throne. It was a vainglorious confection, that great seat, draped in wolfskins. The sight of it always jarred with Theor’s instinct for austerity. But then there was much associated with Ragnor oc Gyre that jarred with Theor’s instincts. The High Thane himself was absent. Theor was only slightly surprised to see with whom he would be awaiting Ragnor’s appearance: Vana oc Horin-Gyre stood there, with her arms folded, surrounded by a small group of attendants and maids. “I heard a rumour that you might be in attendance today, my lady,” Theor said, inclining his head respectfully. “The Hunt keeps you well informed, no doubt,” she replied with distant formality. The Horin Blood—and Vana’s late husband Angain in particular—had long been a most resolute and valued ally to the Inkallim, and to the creed. Indeed Vana herself had secretly delivered one of the High Thane’s own messengers into the hands of the Hunt, and thereby confirmed Ragnor’s connivance with the enemies of the Black Road. Theor wondered if his troubled mood led him to imagine the antipathy he now, unexpectedly, detected in Vana’s manner. He favoured her with a black-lipped smile, giving it a curl of apology. “Avenn has many eyes, indeed. Their attention is often benign. They watch friends as closely as any.” “If you say so.” Vana had always been a fiercely independent woman, Theor knew. This, though, was more than that. There was hostility there, he was sure. His ruminations were interrupted by the loud and expansive entrance of Ragnor oc Gyre. The High Thane came from a small door behind the throne, in mid-laugh as he burst into his Great Hall, the massive warriors of his Shield sharing in whatever jest so amused him. He wore a cloak of thick fur, a breastplate of polished nut-brown leather, a belt with a bright silver buckle the size of a man’s palm. And an expression that shed all its mirth in an instant as his eyes fell upon Theor and Vana standing there awaiting him. He said nothing as he removed his sheathed sword from his belt and settled heavily onto the throne. He rested the metal-shod tip of the scabbard on the planking of the dais and leaned forward a little, both hands clasped about the hilt of the great weapon. “I have had enough,” he said. “I have had enough of my people rioting in the streets of Kan Dredar. Of my farmers and smiths and miners and fishermen abandoning their labours and marching off into the south to fight your precious sacred war. Of bickering Thanes suddenly plaguing me with demands they be granted this piece of the Glas Valley, this town, that village, while they cannot even maintain order in their own lands.” Theor looked from side to side. “I would be grateful for a chair or bench,” he said placidly. “My old bones —” “This will not take long, First,” snapped Ragnor. Theor had expected the High Thane to at least wear a skin of respect. Apparently it was not to be, and that was unsettling. “I am going to tell you what I want,” Ragnor said. He was rocking his sword back and forth very slightly on its tip, his glinting eyes fixed first upon Theor and then Vana oc Horin-Gyre. “You, lady, are going to send word to your son beseeching him to return at once. Beseech, or implore, or command, or entreat. Whatever is required. I want him back here, with every man or woman of your Blood he can shepherd along with him.” Vana drew breath to reply, but Ragnor flashed a warning hand towards her, palm outward. “I am not done. Your husband started this madness. From what I hear, your son has become the least of the horses still running the race, but I want him out of it altogether. Perhaps if the people see those who set all of this in motion retiring from the fray, a flame of sense might be lit in their heads. “And you, First,” Ragnor turned to Theor. He had the grace to moderate his tone a little, but still it was menacing. “You, I want to see exercising some of your vaunted authority in the service of the Bloods rather than the narrow interest of the Children of the Hundred.” “The faith,” said Theor quickly. He could not keep a trace of resentment from his voice. “We serve the faith. Nothing else. The Bloods created us for that purpose, and we adhere to it.” “Well, I say the faith is stumbling towards disaster. The people talk of the Kall; they churn themselves up into a frenzy. Why does the Lore remain silent? I want you to speak, First. Shed this unaccustomed shyness, and speak loud and clear to the people. Tell them that this is not the Kall. Tell them that the world is not about to be unmade. Tell them we are not fated to fritter away everything we have built here in this doomed war against an enemy we cannot yet defeat.” Theor pursed his black lips. There was, he suspected, no response he could make save unequivocal submission that would satisfy the Thane of Thanes, and submission had played no part in the century-and-a-half history of the Lore. Whatever doubts, whatever unease he wrestled with, he had no intention of absolving Ragnor of his responsibility to advance the creed, whatever the odds, whatever the cost. “And have Nyve rein in this she-raven of his who seems to be set upon causing as much trouble as possible,” Ragnor muttered. “I should never have permitted Shraeve to go south with Kanin in the first place.” “Permitted?” said Theor softly. Ragnor glowered at him. “Am I the only one who sees the ruin we rush towards?” cried the High Thane in exasperation. “Grain rots in barns because there aren’t enough hands to mend the roofs. Cattle fall sick because half the herdsmen who should be watching over them have gone off in some mad trance believing they can storm Kolkyre single-handedly. We run short of furs. Furs! Because the Tarbains who should be hunting for them have rushed off in search of loot, and those who remain are suddenly possessed of an urge to relearn the banditry of their forefathers.” He sprang to his feet and stamped towards the door behind his throne. “There are brawls in the quietest of villages. The slightest of arguments erupts into murder. The orders I send south go unanswered or unheard. My messengers fall silent or disappear. Why? What madness has taken root?” He threw open the portal and gestured, beckoning some unseen attendants beyond it. Theor glanced sideways at Vana, but the woman maintained a stern and dignified stillness, gazing ahead impassively. If she was troubled or distressed, she concealed it well. In answer to the High Thane’s summons, three prisoners were hauled out onto the dais by guards: two men and a woman. They were forced to kneel in a line, facing Theor and Vana. Theor frowned, and then raised his eyebrows in startled anticipation of might follow. “This man,” said Ragnor, jabbing a finger at the first of the dishevelled captives, “was passing through Kan Dredar on his way to the Stone Vale. He’s one of yours, lady. He took it upon himself to knife two men in a tavern brawl, and then to attempt the same upon the Guards sent to arrest him. “This —” he advanced down the line, and indicated the second kneeling prisoner “—is the ringleader of a mob from Ramarok on the coast. They were hungry because the seal hunters have gone south. They thought a family was hoarding food, so they burned them out of their house and slaughtered them—husband, wife, children—in the street. Clubbed them to death. Then they set upon one another. Killed another dozen.” The High Thane stood behind the last of them: a long-haired young woman who was calmly watching Theor. The First returned her gaze, sensing that there was some meaning or intent in it, but unable to tease it out. Ragnor looked down at the woman, curling his lip in contempt. He grabbed a handful of her hair and shook her head roughly. “This,” he snarled, “this one I am not sure of. She might be a mere tool, a mere agent. Or perhaps she is the thing itself: one of Avenn’s shadow-haunters. I don’t know, and I don’t care.” He shot a meaningful glance at Theor. “If she’s of the Hunt itself, I don’t care. She was rousing the villagers in the lands around Effen, preaching the coming of the Kall, filling them with the fire they needed to send them off across the Vale of Stones. All but emptied three villages, she did, and when she was commanded to cease, she disappeared, only to be found repeating her game two days later.” Ragnor released the woman, slapping her hard across the back of the head as he stepped away. Guards moved into place behind each of the prisoners. They held cords in their hands. “Ragnor, wait,” Theor said, taking a pace forward. He did not know if the woman was one of the Hunt, but if she was… “No,” Ragnor said flatly. “I have no patience left, First. I will not wait any longer, for anything or anyone.” He nodded to the guards. Theor stepped back. Vana, he realised, was not watching; she was staring up at a ram’s skull mounted high on the wall, pouring her attention into the polished bone, the curled horn. The cords slipped around necks. They were twisted tight at once. They dug into skin. Mouths stretched open, tongues fluttered. Eyes gaped. The woman struggled to rise, but the guard behind her kicked the back of her knee and pushed her down again. On each of the three throats a red blush spread; muscles and sinews stood despairingly taut. Something collapsed with a soft crunch. A distorted rattle escaped the woman’s throat. Her executioner redoubled his efforts, tightening, crushing. One of the men—the one from Ramarok—died first. Then the woman, then the Horin man. They fell, or were pushed, forward, and lay crumpled on the dais. Ragnor oc Gyre scuffed the woman’s long hair away from her face, exposing her protruding tongue and the string of saliva loosed from her mouth. “Do you see?” the Thane of Thanes murmured. “Do you understand? I have gibbets and stakes and pyres aplenty. If I have to fill them all, use every one of them, I will have an end to this. However many have to die, I mean to cure us of this madness. This disease. I have had enough.” Theor’s litter-bearers hurried to take up their positions, and watched him expectantly as he emerged onto the steps outside the Great Hall. It was snowing once more. The hundred Battle Inkallim were still spread across the yard in a great arc. Theor stood just outside the doors, rubbing his hands together. They tingled uncomfortably at the sudden transition from the warmth of the hall into the day’s bitter chill. Vana oc Horin-Gyre appeared at his side. She paused, pulling up the seal-trimmed hood of her cloak. Her attendants hurried to fetch their horses from wherever they had been stabled. “I saw a bear slain on the day of your husband’s interment,” Theor said quietly. “Ragnor’s own Shield quilled its breast with crossbow bolts. You saw it too. The High Thane himself laughed that it might be an omen, of the fall of a great lord or a sudden change in the order of things.” Angain’s widow looked sharply at him, then returned her attention to the task of pulling on sleek calf-hide gloves. “The Road does not grant us omens, of course,” said Theor. “But still. There is change in the air, I think. I fear.” “Spare me any further involvement in your noble enterprises, First,” said Vana, and now the bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. “I thought I had the mettle to succeed my husband, to match his fervour, his strength. I find I do not. I am weary, and I have no remaining interest in the creed, or omens, or the wars you choose to fight. My family has already paid a high enough price.” “It was never our intent, or desire, to do anything other than nurture the fire that your husband, alone amongst all the Thanes, kept alight. Many of the Inkallim who crossed the Vale were specifically tasked with keeping your children safe if —” “Then they failed,” Vana snapped. She flexed her fingers inside the gloves irritably. “You failed. Wain is dead. Kanin, by all accounts, is shunned by those now guiding the war. That vile halfbreed who first whispered thought of war in my husband’s ear rules in Kan Avor, I hear, with this Shraeve of yours serving as his Shieldmaiden. That is not what my husband hoped for.” “There is much, I agree, that is unexpected in all of this —” Theor nodded sympathetically “—but it is not given to any of us to predict fate’s course.” “No?” Vana said. She glared at him, but he saw more pain than anger in her eyes. He felt a sudden sympathy for this woman who found her strength unequal to the challenges the world presented. “I’ll make a prediction for you: I will never have my son back, just as I will never see my daughter again. Ragnor wants me to summon him, as if anything I could say would change anything. I know my son, First. Wain is dead. Kanin would return only if there were none left to punish for that, deservingly or not. He will require a surfeit of blood, and still it will not heal him. In search of that healing he can never find, he will go on and on until he drowns in the blood of the dead.” “As will we all, eventually,” Theor murmured as Vana walked away from him, descending the steps to where her grooms now waited with the horses. “It’s the fate of this world to drown in blood, sooner or later.”