The Plains of Kallanash (30 page)

But it ate away inside her, and in the end it was almost a relief when he brought things to a head himself. They had been chatting during the stillness about quite an innocuous matter
– the bread, she thought it was – when he got up and picked up his coat, preparing to leave. He stopped and turned to her, and she was aware of something in his face that froze her heart. She was still sitting in her little bed, so he towered over her.

“Mia,” he said, “things can’t go on like this. You have to decide what you want.”

“You know what I want,” she whispered. “I want to be free.”

“Not possible,” he said tersely. “We are none of us free.”

Then he tossed his coat back onto the bed, and sat down himself, so that he was almost at her level.

“Do you have any special aversion to me personally?” he said. “Perhaps you would prefer to belong to someone else?”

“I would prefer to belong to my husband, or to no man,” Mia replied.

He eyed her for a moment, his face expressionless.

“Mia, do you have any idea how many men I have here in my Sections?”

“No, how could I?”

“Close to a thousand men under my command – archers, spearmen, swordsmen and the like, and those who support them – maintain the weaponry and gear, tend the horses, train the warriors, find food and prepare it. It’s a lot of work to keep an army fed and ready for battle. And can you guess how many women there are?”

She shrugged.

“A hundred. Maybe a hundred and twenty, I’m not sure. But you can see the problem. And my men are not respectable farmers or scholars, not the sort to woo a woman gently and wait for her to be ready. They’re thieves and rapists and murderers, many of them. Transgressors and rule breakers. Every day they may be called upon to fight to the death. They’ve seen friends killed and maimed, and they know they could be next. When they come back from battle, they don’t want to sit quietly with embroidery, they want to celebrate life while they still have it. They want to feast, to drink, to fuck. They want women, they’ll riot if they don’t get them, and I need to make sure they have them.”

“You don’t need to force them against their will.”

“And where am I to find willing women? None of us choose to be here, and I can’t choose who I get. I can’t go recruiting. Whoever arrives in my territory, that’s who I get and everyone has to do their share, according to their abilities. If a man can hold a sword or bend a bow, he fights. If he can’t, he does some other work. But a woman – a woman’s greatest asset is between her legs. She’s too valuable a resource to keep in the kitchens or to send into battle, even if she’s the world’s most skilled archer.”

“Shouldn’t she have the choice?” Mia said.

“And how long do you think any woman would last before some man can’t keep his hands off her? A few days, maybe? In Supplies, a matter of hours, if she were lucky.”

“I worked in the Third Section kitchens for three weeks. No one touched me.”

“Because you belonged to Bulraney and everyone knew he would castrate any man who laid a finger on you. Even so, I imagine it was an uncomfortable experience.”

She was silent, unable to deny it.

“Mia, this may not be easy for you to understand, but this is the best way. Fighting men will fight, after all, and if women aren’t freely available, they’ll fight over what there are. I can’t afford that kind of distraction. This is an arrangement that works for the benefit of everyone. The few women we have are shared out amongst the men so that they all have access. The women don’t have any heavy work to do, and any man who mistreats or abuses them in any way is punished. They’re fed and clothed and protected, all they have to do in return is lie on their backs and spread their legs and keep the men happy.”

“A lot of men,” Mia said quietly.

“In some cases, yes. At Supplies and at the Section Houses, there are a lot of men to be serviced, it’s true. But that doesn’t have to be your fate, Mia. You can choose to stay here, and you will only have one man to tend. But I’m not going to force you. I’ve never taken an unwilling woman in my life, and I’ll not start now. I don’t expect you to pretend to enjoy it, or to do anything out of the ordinary, but I won’t tolerate any resistance and I’m not waiting indefinitely. You’ve had long enough to get used to the idea. So I expect you in my bed tonight, and no screaming, or tomorrow I send you back to Bulraney and he can do as he likes with you.”

Then he left.

She cried a little and paced about the room, but she knew there was no longer any way of avoiding it. So she tidied away her little nest between the boxes, and that night she got into the bed and waited for him. She left off the undergown altogether, in case it got in the way and was awkward to remove later. Then she lay flat on her back and waited to become a whore.

When he arrived, he said nothing, as usual, undressing without haste and then lying down beside her. She didn’t turn to look at him, didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes. She wasn’t going to help him. For what seemed an age he did nothing. Then his hand reached out for her, touching her stomach first. A moment’s hesitation, as if he was surprised to find her naked.

Then the fingers slid upwards to find her breast. His hand was warm, and he was not at all rough, just exploratory. He spent quite some time on her breasts, then he went downwards – her stomach, her thighs, between them. He put a finger inside her, and made a little sighing noise. He moved closer to her then, and she could feel him hard against her hip. His hands gently pushed her legs apart before he rolled on top of her. Then he was inside her. Another sighing noise, then some grunts, although he wasn’t noisy. And surprisingly soon it was over. He moved off her, turned his back and almost immediately went to sleep. He hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t said a single word.

Mia lay unmoving for an age while he slept, too numb to cry. Now there had been three men in her life. She’d had no choice, but still it felt like a betrayal.

“Looks like we’re going to have to fight, then,” Walst said, as they sat in their new quarters. Kelliman and Tronnet were outside the door, holding a whispered conversation.

“It was always a possibility,” Hurst said calmly.

“Good,” said Walst. “I’m sick of skulking around. I want to kill someone.”

“And who are you going to kill?” Gantor asked conversationally. “Our own people?”

“
These
are our people now,” Hurst said. “If we fight, we have to do it properly. Holding back is a good way to get ourselves killed.”

“And if the Karningers don’t kill us, our new friends will,” Trimon said. “This
is
going to be fun.”

“Bear in mind,” Hurst said, “that our new friends, as you call them, are the only people who know what happened to Mia and the others. For now, they have our absolute loyalty. After this battle
– well, we’ll see.”

They discovered that their new status gave them few privileges. Sleeping was more comfortable, but the food was identical, although now they sat around a table. They ate with Ainsley and his men
– he had twenty altogether, and Bulraney was in charge of five such groups, or a hundred men. There were few horses, they learned, only fifteen for the whole of Third Section, and they were needed to carry gear.

They asked few questions, though, just watching and listening, and saying as little as possible. Kelliman and Tronnet watched them constantly, and they were only left to themselves in their sleeping quarters, when they knew one or other of them was stationed outside the door.

“These women they have…” Trimon said when they were alone. “Do you have to leave them some money – you know, like the guards’ nightwomen?”

“I’ve never seen any money here,” Gantor said dubiously.

“There was some serious gambling going on down below, when we were there.”

“They were doing it for bones, though, or gear,” Walst said.

Hurst said nothing. The women were of no interest to him, for he had his own woman to find. Wherever Mia was, she was not amongst the whores. Even barbarians, he was sure, would respect a pregnant woman. She would be safe with the rest of the women, those with children to raise. All he had to do was to find out where that was.

One day Ainsley called them into the Section House canteen.

“Tomorrow’s the day,” he said grimly. “We’re to be ready an hour before dawn, fully kitted for battle. You’ll need a cloak, whatever food you can scrounge, full flask of water, nothing else. The day after, we fight.”

A great cheer went up. Well, they were enthusiastic, Hurst thought, surprised. But then conditions were pretty miserable, even for those in the Section House, and considerably worse for those underground, and the sitting around waiting shredded the nerves. Everyone would be glad to get out and go somewhere, even if there was a possibility that some of them wouldn’t come back.

“So – who are we fighting?” he said cheerfully.

Several people groaned, or laughed at him. “
Them,
of course!”

“Yes, but which
them
in particular?”

He reached down to pull something out of his belt, and it was a sign of the tension prevailing that several men drew daggers.

“No, no!” he said, holding one hand up in appeasement, and slowly pulling out a long thin metal tube.

“Oh, a map!” Ainsley said, his face lighting up. “Gods, haven’t seen one of those in years.”

Hurst unscrewed the top of the tube and carefully drew out a rolled up piece of cloth, spreading it out on the table. Then, examining it quickly, he turned it so that it was the right way round for Ainsley.

“This is pretty well up to date, as of last year. Right, now as best we can tell, we ended up somewhere around here or here or maybe here
– “ and he pointed at several Karnings, “but you would know best.”

“How come you don’t know where you are?” Ainsley said suspiciously.

“It’s hard to tell exactly which direction you’re going when you’re underground,” Hurst said, with a mischievous grin, knowing that Ainsley disbelieved their tale. “Now, if we’re going into battle
here,
then the wall will be all the way out on the north side, in fact they just turned the corner last year, but this one here, see, is only half way, and this one too.”

He looked expectantly at Ainsley, who stared back at him mulishly.

“Why d’you want to know?”

“Because it’s better to know who we’re dealing with,” he said patiently. “If we’re here, and we’re going due west for the battle, then that’s this one, right?”

“Isn’t that Trinadal Afforneesh?” Gantor said.

“Gods, no! He’s way up here
– let’s have a look, there, see? No, that would be bad news.”

“Suppose we’re going there, that one,” Ainsley said, pointing. “Just supposing.
If
we were going there.”

“Right,
if
we were going there, that would be Cassinor Annamost. That’s not too bad, actually. He’s old – really old now, and I think the second husband died last year, but he still keeps tight control. He won’t come up with anything new. One of the younger ones is quite promising, but Cassinor won’t give him his head. Mind you, his archers are always good, and they favour fire.”

“Fire’s only a big problem if they come here,” Ainsley said. “How d’you know all this?”

“Obsessive devotion to battle reports,” said Gantor at once. “Very tedious he is with it, most of the time. Never thought it would come in handy. But isn’t Draylinor Annamost in that Karning now? He’s very good, isn’t he?”

“Good swordsman, good in the tournaments,” Hurst said. “Best swordsman on horseback I’ve ever seen, actually. That’s not the same as being a good battle Commander. But if you see him with a sword in his hand, keep out of his way. So. Is there a battle plan?”

“Battle plan?” Ainsley said.

“Yes. A strategy. What everyone aims to do before everything turns to the Great Chaos of the Ninth Vortex and we all fall into a swamp.”

Ainsley shrugged. “We line up, they line up, we beat each other to pulp until one side runs away.”

“Very traditional,” Hurst said. “But effective, as a rule. Gods, I’m looking forward to this!”

They set off when the sun was no more than an orange sliver behind them, lines of men snaking out of the compound gates in an endless stream. The Sections stayed roughly together, following their Commander, but once outside the walls groups spilled across the plain in a random fashion. There was no organisation and no regard for stealth. There were drums and pipers and men’s voices raised in song, clashing spear to shield as they walked. Hurst had found it frightening to hear when safely walled up in his father’s defensive fort, but out here in the wilderness with the noise all around him it was terrifying.

Yet there was something wonderful and mesmerising about being a part of such an enterprise, this large group of men all journeying together to face their foe. It didn’t matter that the enemy now consisted of people Hurst had met at the Ring, had competed against in tournaments, had perhaps played with as a boy and learned beside under the scholars. They were trying to kill him and that was enough reason for Hurst to draw his own sword.

Well, not exactly his own, since Bulraney wore that in the scabbard on his hip. Ainsley had found him a beaten up and notched affair, which Hurst had spent hours honing to something resembling a usable weapon. But then Trimon had given him his own sword.

“I don’t need a decent blade, I’m better with bow and knife, so you have mine and I’ll have the bad one. With any luck, I won’t even have to draw it.”

Hurst said little as they marched. After weeks of confinement in the tunnels and perhaps another week in the compound, although he had lost track rather, it was glorious to be out on the open plain. Summer was tipping over into autumn now, and where the grass was untrampled by men or horses it waved brown plumes at head height. Here and there were stands of bushes or spindly trees, dense with overgrown weeds and tangled vines, and above was the clear arch of the sky, mostly grey but streaked with patches of pale blue.

The pace was slow but steady. Every two or three hours they stopped to rest, simply sitting on the ground in a loose circle while the Captains and Commander Bulraney conferred together.

Everyone from the Eastern Sections wore a yellow tabard, pale with age and often streaked with dried blood and mud. There were circles painted on them to mark each Section, but they were too faded to read. The Captains wore a single yellow sash, the Commander two sashes.

But Hurst saw another man, accompanied by four Captains, who wore a yellow waistband and helmet plume as well. That, he discovered, was the Eastern Warlord. He was stern-faced and unsmiling, but he rode his horse well, in the Skirmisher style, and Hurst thought him more interesting and perhaps less dangerous than Bulraney.

Late in the afternoon, they drew near to the Karning fort and began to arrange themselves into some sort of order. The three South Eastern Sections, with their green tabards, would hold the left of the line, and then the Eastern Sections in order, from one through to nine. None of the North Eastern Sections had come. Each Section camped together, building a massive fire and roasting whole kishorn and whatever else recent hunting had produced. The firewood and meat was brought out on pack horses, who would later be used to return injured men and the dead.

While they waited for the meat to be cooked, Hurst, Gantor, Walst and Trimon walked to the edge of the camp to look at the fort, not two miles away, with its solid stone walls. Today its towers were filled with flags, and multitudes of heads were visible on the walls.

“What are they doing up there?” Trimon said.

“Watching us,” said Hurst.

“Will they come out and fight? They don’t have to, do they?”

“No, but most of the interior is wooden, all it would take is a few burning arrows. No, they have to defend it. Once the stonework is all in place and the final wall is going up, they will become more aggressive, moving the barbarians
–
us
further and further back, bringing the fires to –
us
.”

“What would happen if the interior caught fire?” Trimon said thoughtfully. “Just supposing, you know.”

“Well, just supposing,” Hurst said with a grin, “I just suppose that a lot of people would fry.”

“Actually, they’d get out through the tunnels,” Gantor said.

“There are tunnels? Of course there are tunnels! It’s our tunnel, isn’t it? We’ve come due west, so the tunnel runs right underneath it.”

“Or somewhere very close,” Gantor said. “Does Tanist have access to a tunnel?”

“If he does, I never heard it mentioned. That’s interesting. But Trimon, don’t get any ideas about burning arrows. Our objective here is to survive, we’re not aiming for wholesale slaughter.”

“Don’t worry, all I have is regular arrows. Fiery ones take a bit of preparation.”

“What are you four plotting?” Ainsley said, coming up behind them.

“We were wondering if you needed any volunteers for the overnight watch,” Hurst said quickly.

“Not you lot, that’s for sure. Get some rest. Tomorrow will be quite busy.”

Nevertheless, they took it in turns to keep their own watch, an hour or so at a time, just in case the Karningers decided to move early. But dawn revealed the same empty plain between their camps and the fort walls, and the gates remained closed. The sun was well up before trumpets sounded and the gates opened.

“They’re late,” Gantor murmured, as Bulraney shouted his instructions and they formed into their battle groups. “Disorganised, maybe?”

“Or over confident,” Hurst said, watching the army streaming out into the morning sunlight.

It was disheartening to see so many horses, so much gleaming armour, so many men marching in disciplined formation, so many banners and painted shields and decorated tabards. They glittered and shone and dazzled, while all around Hurst were men in ancient battered gear with limited training and few skills.

“That’s Mannigor facing us,” Hurst said, reading the banners as the enemy began to form its line. “One of the sons. Young, a bit impetuous. Draylinor to his right. Up that way…” He stopped, mesmerised. There were several signal flags going up in various places. “Do you read that?” he said to Gantor, then strode forward towards Ainsley. “Captain! They’re signalling that there’s swamp between the lines
– about where the Sixth is, I’d say. They’re going to hang back there, try to lure our men in, and come round on the flank. Also, they’re going to try to push hard between us and the South East, split the line.”

“You can read the signals? Fuck it, if this is a trick…” But without another word he rode off in haste towards the Warlord.

“If they didn’t guess you were a Karningholder before,” Gantor muttered, “you’ve given it away now. Reading the signals… Gods, Hurst! Keep your mouth shut, will you?”

It seemed an eternity waiting in the sun, while more and more men and horses poured out of the fort. Were there more of them? It was hard to tell. The Karninger line was a little shorter, but had greater depth and straggled less.