Bloodheir (62 page)

Something else came with this ragged army. Something that Kanin could not see, or hear, but that stole across his skin and shadowed his mind. This host drove a bow wave of foreboding before it, and Kanin felt it wash over him, felt the idea take root in his mind that this was more than a mere assembly of warriors; that it was somehow fate itself, given form. He doubted all his certainties in that moment. He saw his loathing for Aeglyss clearly for what it was: the futile, foolish ravings of a child standing in the path of one of the Tan Dihrin’s grinding glaciers, commanding it to turn aside from its chosen path.

It was the thought of Wain that drew him back. The clear memory of her, riding away from him that last time they had spoken, was handhold enough for him to keep his grip upon his self. Aeglyss was only a man, his resilient hatred insisted. He would die like any other.

The whole eastern side of Hommen, from the crumbling watchtower all the way down to the sea, was defended. A thicket of spears and shields and swords barred the way. Kanin heard the uncertain murmuring that rippled through the ranks as Aeglyss drew near. He even saw a few of his own warriors shuffling backwards, looking around with hunted, fearful eyes. He shouted at them. Most, but not all, obediently resumed their places in the line.

Aeglyss dismounted. He moved like an old man whose brittle bones might snap under his own weight, Kanin thought. When the halfbreed walked slowly forwards, Shraeve flanked him on one side, a powerfully built Kyrinin warrior on the other. Kanin had eyes only for Aeglyss, though. He stared, and knew his hatred would be shining, obvious. He could not have concealed it, even had he wished to.

Aeglyss lifted his arms and spread his hands. Shraeve and the woodwight stopped, letting him take a few paces beyond them. The
na’kyrim
faced Fiallic, but the Inkallim ignored him; looked beyond him, and spoke to his fellow raven.

“This man is to be surrendered to the Hunt,” he said to Shraeve. “He goes no further than this.”

“No,” Aeglyss said.

Fiallic continued to address Shraeve. “And the Shadowhand, as well, if you have him here.”

The
na’kyrim
grimaced. “We have him. He is bound for Vaymouth. Nowhere else. He carries a message from me to the Thane of Thanes.”

At last Fiallic turned his gaze upon Aeglyss.

“You will be sending messages to no one. We require the Shadowhand. And you. It is not a matter of choice.”

“Nothing is about choice to you, is it? Your miserable, gloomy little creed does not . . . ah.” He flicked a dismissive hand at the Banner-captain and turned, began to walk away.

Now he dies, thought Kanin, with both a shiver of anticipation and a twist of regret. It would not be his own hand that took the halfbreed’s life, but the fact of his death was the most important thing.

“Where is my sister?” he shouted after Aeglyss.

He thought he saw the
na’kyrim
’s head lift a little at his call, but Aeglyss did not look around or slow his stride. Fiallic stepped forwards after the halfbreed, and set his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Aeglyss paused at Shraeve’s side, leaning on her shoulder. It looked like a moment of feebleness. He stretched his head up and whispered something to her. She was watching Fiallic, and did not seem to react to the
na’kyrim
’s words. Fiallic came on. And Shraeve blocked his path, putting Aeglyss at her back.

The two Inkallim faced each other, snowflakes tumbling about them. Kanin frowned. He had a sudden, lurching sense of disorientation, as of a man poised on the brink of a precipice. But this was not the dizziness of height; it was an imbalance of the world, a twisting away, out of reach, of possibilities and hopes.

“Stand aside,” Fiallic said quietly.

Shraeve only shook her head, stirring little accumulations of snow from her shoulders.

Aeglyss was still walking away, stoop-shouldered, frail. “She sees what you cannot, raven,” he said. He turned, amongst his woodwights once more. “You think it is the sun of your power, your authority, that still illuminates the clouds, but your eyes deceive you. It is only afterlight, Fiallic: the fading echo of a day that’s already passed. Shraeve has set her face towards the new dawn.”

“With regret,” Shraeve said, “I challenge you, Banner-captain. I make a claim to your rank and your standing in the Battle. I ask that we reveal fate’s intent, in this matter that comes between us.”

“No,” Kanin heard Goedellin saying behind him. The old Lore Inkallim pushed forwards, stabbing his crooked stick into the soft snow. His hooked back held his head no higher than Kanin’s chest, but Goedellin’s voice was clear, with all the vigour of his authority. “This is not a fit time for such an issue to be tested, Shraeve. Later, if you must, but first this half-wight is to be—”

“This is a matter for the Battle,” Shraeve said levelly. “The fitness of the time is no concern for the Lore, or for any of us. I have seen things . . . I believe that this
na’kyrim
is here because he has a great purpose to serve, a great fate to live out. I have seen enough to leave me without doubts in this. If you mean to kill him, I must oppose you. I am entitled.”

Fiallic shifted sideways. Shraeve matched his movement. Beyond them, Aeglyss was watching. There was such contemptuous confidence on his inhuman face that Kanin felt a flicker of alarm.

“I make a claim on the place of Banner-captain,” Shraeve insisted. “Fate’s judgement is infallible. Let us face it together, Fiallic. There is nothing improper in my challenge.” She bowed low, bending from the waist, her head almost brushing Fiallic’s chest in its descent.

Again Goedellin thumped the butt of his walking stick down, punching a hole into the snow. Fiallic looked round to the Lore Inkallim, and in the raven’s expression Kanin saw the betrayal of everything he had hoped for from this day.

“She is entitled,” the Banner-captain said. “The rule of the Battle permits it.”

“No,” Kanin said before he could help himself, but no one paid him any heed. Shraeve was still bent over, perfectly poised and still. Fat snowflakes dotted her back.

“It will be no service to the creed for either of you to die today,” Goedellin growled.

“Do you fear to let fate play itself out, old man?” Aeglyss shouted. “I do not. Let the ravens dance their dance. If she fails, you can have my life, and welcome to it.”

Fiallic was already backing away. He settled himself a spear’s reach from Shraeve, and slowly bowed down. Goedellin gave an irate snort and stamped away. Shraeve straightened.

“Choose the field, Banner-captain,” she said.

There was, on bare, rising ground beyond Hommen’s southernmost dwelling, a great sheep pen: a low stone wall that described a perfect circle across the slope. Snow had piled up against the wall: and laid itself into every crevice between the stones. Outside that circle, another assembled itself, Battle Inkallim ringing the killing ground within. They stood in single rank, thirty of them, widely spaced. Each one of them took position and then set their own weapons down on the snow behind them. Beyond that ring of swords and knives the crowds assembled.

Hundreds were there, of many Bloods, of many callings. Warriors and commoners, Inkallim and Kyrinin. And one Thane. Kanin stood above the pen. The snow blew into his face, carried on a sharp wind, but he barely felt it. The flakes were coming down thickly enough now to almost obscure the village below them. The old watchtower was an indistinct hulking mass, the cottages spread around it blurred into a single grey-black shape. The harbour and the sea beyond were gone, sunk away into the winter.

Kanin spared none of it more than a moment’s glance.

His attention was upon the two figures alone in the centre of the stone enclosure, facing each other in the heart of the white circle that it contained.

Fiallic had sword and shield, Shraeve her twin blades. Neither of them moved for what seemed an interminable time. Snow spun between them, caught in eddies of the air.

“My feet are on the Road,” Shraeve said.

“My feet are on the Road,” Fiallic replied.

They began to circle one another, taking small, tight steps. Each was as graceful and balanced as the other. There was not a sound from all the great throng gathered to witness the trial between these two warriors. Kanin could hear the soft crunch of snow beneath their precise feet, and the threnodic calling of a crow somewhere far off to the south, and nothing else. The tension was acute, stiffening his back and drying his mouth.

Fiallic, he knew by reputation. It was said he had only ever been defeated once, by Nyve himself, in a wrestling match. That had been many, many years ago, when Fiallic was a teenager and Nyve not yet First, and the loss had, supposedly, cost the future Banner-captain a dislocated shoulder and a broken jaw. Shraeve, Kanin had seen for himself, dealing out slaughter on the battlefield at Grive, and at Glasbridge. She was as ferocious a warrior as he had ever shared a field with, but single combat was –

should be – different. Kanin had to believe that Fiallic was more than a match for her in this narrow, snowy arena. The alternative was too bitter a prospect to contemplate.

They were like fighting dogs, he thought, taking the measure of one another. Round and round they circled, their eyes locked and almost unblinking, blades steady. Kanin brushed snow from the crown of his head.

Shraeve moved so completely without warning that he lost track of her for an instant, and only heard rather than saw the clatter of steel on shield, the flurry of quick feet advancing and retreating. Fiallic spun out of her path, cutting at her flank as he went. She blocked the blow with one sword, stabbed in over it with the other. But Fiallic was gone already, gliding over the snow. Neither of them was breathing hard, Kanin could see. Neither looked as though they were engaged in anything more serious or strenuous than a casual training exercise. Shraeve shook her arms, shifted her weight from one foot to another and back again, and rushed in once more.

They battled their way around that walled killing ground, and the patterns they described with bodies and blades were as intricate as any dance. There was, indeed, a certain intimacy, a certain isolation, to the intensity with which the two of them engaged. They were shaping something, together, alone, that belonged to them and to no one else.

Fiallic deflected an assault, then countered with the shield itself, slashing with its rim at Shraeve’s face. It was as smooth and fast a movement as Kanin had ever seen in combat, but not quite fast enough to catch Shraeve. She ducked aside. For just that one fraction of a heartbeat, her balance was less than perfect, and Fiallic’s sword came hacking down on her weight-bearing leg. Kanin broadened his shoulders, ready to cry out in acclamation of the victory. Shraeve sprang, drove herself up off that leg, twisting in the air to swing it out of the path of Fiallic’s blade. The blow still caught her, but it was only glancing, skidding off her calf. Still, it tumbled her. She landed on fists and knees in a spray of snow. There was blood on her leg.

Fiallic darted in. Shraeve spiralled up and away, like an acrobat, and was on her feet, flicking his attack aside. He has her, though, Kanin thought. He has the tiniest fragment of greater speed, the minutely sharper eye that is required of the victor. He will kill her. And then Aeglyss.

At the thought of the
na’kyrim
, Kanin tore his eyes away from the furious struggle within the enclosure, searching for him. Aeglyss was there, further down the slope, some way round the perimeter of the crowd. He was amongst his Kyrinin, thirty or forty of them. One of them was supporting him. Look at him, Kanin thought. Unable to even stand straight. Any eye can see the man’s sick; dying already, perhaps. Why would Shraeve sacrifice herself in such a perverse cause? What hold is it that this creature exerts?

The ringing of blades snapped his attention back to the sheep pen. Fiallic was rushing Shraeve, driving her backwards in a blindingly fast flurry of blows and blocks and feints. He forced her to the wall of their arena, pinning her against its rough stone surface. His shield pushed back one sword, he parried her second with his own blade, and butted her across the bridge of her nose. Kanin saw the blood bloom, and smear down her face, and once again he thought she must be finished now. But Shraeve ducked down, put her shoulder into Fiallic’s armpit and heaved him, by sheer strength, backwards and away from her. Blood dripped from her chin.

Kanin glanced back towards Aeglyss, wondering whether he would see fear there; whether the halfbreed could see his own death, coming down the track towards him. Instead, what he saw was Aeglyss swaying, his head twitching as if fending off flies. Even at this distance, Kanin could see a sheen of sweat on the halfbreed’s forehead. There was a faint ringing in Kanin’s ears, so faint he could not be sure he heard it.

He saw Fiallic falter, taking a hesitant half-step and giving his head a sharp shake. Shraeve closed on him. Kanin stared at Aeglyss, fury rising in him. The
na’kyrim
’s lips were drawn back from his teeth in a coarse grin of pain or pleasure. His mouth slowly opened. His inhuman eyes were following Fiallic’s every movement. No, Kanin thought. No. His skin was tingling.

Fiallic blocked an attack, but he was slow. Shraeve got a cut in at his shoulder, putting a deep wound there. She had blood across her eyes. She should have been barely able to see. Fiallic staggered. He was blinking furiously. There was a look of strained surprise on his face. Inexplicably, he made no attempt to put his shield between himself and Shraeve. She squatted, bringing both blades flashing round in a flat sweep, one above the other, and a fraction behind. The first took Fiallic in the back of the knee, cutting one leg from under him. The second opened his hamstring.

He fell in the snow. Shraeve straightened, slow and considered now. She wiped one sleeve across her eyes, smudging a track through the blood. She walked towards Fiallic. He was rising unsteadily to his feet. Neither leg could take his full weight. He levered himself up with his sword, its point driven into the ground. Shraeve steadied both her blades, one low, one high, and ran at him.