The Plains of Kallanash (63 page)

Down the curving stair, through the gate and into the tunnel
– they were going to the scholars’ hall again, the one place they could be sure to meet no opposition on the way. And then through the basement like thieves, before they could climb again to street level and take up the proper formation. Even then, tramping fully armed through their own capital felt wrong, somehow. At least it would be over soon, he thought. One way or another, today would be the end of the rebellion – they would be the undisputed new masters or destroyed utterly.

As soon as they emerged into the open, they heard the clash of steel and shouts away in the distance. Some at least of their forces had encountered trouble. Walst began to draw his sword, but Hurst put out a restraining hand. There was muttering behind them, and several people turned towards the sounds, ready to rush to help.

“No distractions!” Tanist shouted. “We go on!”

The sounds of fighting died away as they walked on, but there was no way to judge the outcome. Before long they had more encouraging news, for they came up behind one of their own Hundreds successfully arrived from the barrens, flying the red flag of the rebellion. Then, at a junction, another could be seen approaching, and yet another behind them. Hurst began to feel more optimistic. A final corner brought them to the outer wall of the Great Temple and they marched steadily through the archway and into the court. Behind them, and through other archways, lines of men poured in like floodwater.

The Great Temple itself dominated the far end of the court. It was far older than the Gods it celebrated, dating back thousands of years. When the Slaves had first arrived, it stood empty and neglected, its purpose forgotten, but it was large and imposing and round, so they had commandeered it, modifying its twelve great windows to show the Nine individually and collectively. Nine smaller temples around the perimeter of the court were each devoted to one of the Nine. In the centre of the court was a vast oval space paved with white stone slabs. Hurst was not at all devout, but even he felt uncomfortable at the thought of wielding a sword in such a place, pools of blood staining the purity of the ground, marking its whiteness for ever.

The Silent Guards were waiting for them. Lines of them were already arrayed across the width of the court, and more were filing out from the temple itself and from hatches in the ground. Each one was encased from head to toe in golden armour, dazzling in the sun. Their curved swords were still sheathed. That was a relief; they were still following their own rules, which forbade the drawing of a blade within the temple walls. As on the first occasion, they would wait and see what the arriving army intended to do.

“Looks like it’s just us and them,” Hurst muttered, his breath puffing in the frigid air, but Gantor shook his head.

“No, there are flags and signal poles beyond the far wall. We’ll have company.”

Indeed, before their own men had finished arranging themselves in their squares, Skirmishers were forming up to either side of the Silent Guards, sending swirls of dust to be caught by the wind. Two Hundreds, then four, and more jostling behind them. Hurst’s heart sank, for he thought the numbers against them were even greater than last time.

The two sides settled into some sort of order, a wide gap between them. Midway between them stood a low glass roof, one of several scattered about the court providing light to rooms below ground. Dotted about were marble plinths which perhaps had once supported statuary, but were empty now. Tanist, Hurst and their Companions, together with Dethin, clambered onto one of these so that they could be seen by the Silent Guards and Skirmishers. Behind them was some sort of commotion, as men still crowded round the archways trying to get into the court and found it full. Hurst looked questioningly at Tanist, but he shook his head.

“Ignore it. We follow the plan.”

Tanist stepped forward first to address the Skirmishers, much the same speech he’d given to the assembly. He spoke well, but Hurst thought it was too late for talking. All the arguments had been put forward already. Besides, what kind of Skirmisher would march to battle and then just lay down his arms, however logical the reasoning? It was no use appealing to an army already primed to fight.

Quite a sizeable army, too. It was dispiriting, the number of Karningholders arrayed against them. Hurst looked at all the flags fluttering gently in the frigid air, recognising familiar Karnings, the symbols of friends from his tournament days and heroes from battles past. One jumped out at him, turning his heart to lead.

When Tanist had finished, Hurst tapped his sleeve. “May I go and talk to Kendron?”

“Kendron?”

“Mia’s father.”

“Gods, is he here?” Tanist’s face was ashen. Turning, he gave the signal for a negotiation pole to be raised. “Go.”

Hurst dropped his helmet and climbed down from the plinth, then walked, sword arm raised, towards Kendron. About twenty paces away, he stopped, unbuckled his sword and moved forward a few paces, waiting. He had carried out this manoeuvre a hundred times in skirmishes, but never in a hostile situation and he wasn’t at all sure it would work.

He breathed a sigh of relief when Kendron removed his helmet, unbuckled his own sword and stepped forward grim-faced to meet him. The grey hair ruffling in the breeze tore Hurst apart. Here was a man who had earned the right to hang up his sword altogether, yet he would willingly die to protect the temple from sacrilege. No, not the temple, he reminded himself; none of them wished to harm the temple, they only wanted the cowards hiding beneath its skirts. And Kendron had as much reason as anyone to hate the Trannatta; how many Karningers had he killed, believing them to be barbarians?

Yet what would Mia say when she knew her father was against them? It would grieve her unbearably.

Despite the grey hair, Kendron’s eyes showed a sharp intelligence, and no sign of the rheumy gaze of age. Now, they bore implacably into Hurst. He shuffled uncomfortably.

“Most High Kendron.” He bowed formally, leathers creaking.

Kendron did not return the bow. “What do you want, Hurst?”

Not a promising start. He hadn’t thought what to say, so for a moment he chewed his lip. Then it all came out in a rush. “What are you doing here? I thought you were safe at home.”

“So I was, but I heard that traitors were plotting against the rule of law.”

“You came all the way from the northern border to fight your own kin? Haven’t we done enough of that?”

“I was closer than that. After you disappeared, and then that father of yours—” A curt nod in Tanist’s direction. “Some of us felt that a training exercise near to the Ring might be in order. With battle swords. You were always ambitious, Hurst. Now you’re trying to overturn all the good the Word of the Gods has brought us.”

Hurst felt sick. “But it was all a lie! Don’t you care?”

Kendron shook his head sadly. “I’ve heard the excuse for your treachery. I’ve heard how you’ve joined the barbarians. But I’ve fought the Vahsi, Hurst. I’ve fought them and defeated them, time after time. They’re savages, every one of them. As you are. I will not allow you to destroy everything I’ve spent my whole life protecting. I know my duty, unlike you. Go back to your barbarians, and leave the civilised people in peace. I despise you, Hurst. I trusted you with my daughter, and you betrayed me. May you both rot in the Ninth Vortex.”

Had he been younger, Kendron would have spun on his heel, and marched smartly away. Instead, he shuffled round and walked slowly back to the lines of his Hundred, one of his Companions hovering at his elbow and another retrieving his sword.

Hurst’s whole body shook, but he forced himself to turn and walk away from the humiliation. Dethin reached a hand to pull him back onto the plinth. As Hurst buckled on his sword, Tanist raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“He guessed something was going to happen. They have battle swords.”

“So do we,” Tanist said. “Well, some of us do, and we have plenty of daggers and bows. We’ll give them a fight, if that’s what they want. Don’t worry about it. We still have one more die to throw. Whenever you’re ready, Warlord.”

With a brief nod, Dethin removed his helmet and stepped to the front of the plinth, gazing calmly down at the perfectly straight lines of the Silent Guards, and the more disordered squares of Skirmishers. It took some courage, Hurst thought, to stand there so coolly, when there was no knowing how the Silent Guard might react. What would they do, he wondered, if one of their own side drew a weapon? Would they turn on him? Did they even have a concept of sides, or was it just us and everyone else? He remembered the six from the tower, whose loyalty was only to their fellows, and wondered at how little any of them knew of these men, taken at the age of five and turned into a golden army with almost unimaginable levels of discipline.

The Skirmishers shuffled nervously, but the Silent Guard stayed immobile, watchful. Dethin raised one hand, and the court fell silent as everyone’s eyes turned on him.

“Guards of the Temple,” he began, and his voice lifted commandingly around the court, “you who live under the bonds of your oath, I bring you good news. You have been promised a day when you will be set free from your servitude, when all those oppressed and bound shall be free. That day has now come. These men behind me are here to bring freedom and joy to all those labouring under the heavy yoke of oppression. They mean no harm to you, or to those who devote their lives in humility to the Word of the Gods. They will not enter the temples, or defile them, or breach their sanctity. No one who lives honestly need fear them. Their object is to cleanse the Karningplain of the evil ones who have subjugated its people, who have destroyed lives and families, who have imposed their will by fear, who sent any who opposed them into exile. I myself lived beyond the borders, and now I have returned as it has been foretold. I stand before you in the shadow of the Great Temple. I have turned the worm. I ask you, therefore, to lay down your weapons and leave this place. Go where you will, in peace and contentment, for the rest of your days. I set you free.”

Even Hurst, who knew Dethin well and was aware of what he would say, was impressed by his rhetoric. He could see the Skirmishers exchanging puzzled glances, and shaking their heads, but the Silent Guards stood transfixed, unmoving. When Dethin stopped speaking, the ten leaders who stood a little forward of the rest began signalling to each other with their hands, as they had in the tower, communicating in their strange language. Their fingers flew, and Hurst thought there was an excited, almost frenzied, air about it. Then with curt nods, they stopped, and one of them turned and began signalling to his men behind him. Several of them ran forward to the glass roof between the two battle lines and began opening concealed doors to reveal winding mechanisms on each side. In teams they hauled, and gradually the sides of the roof parted and fell away, revealing a large opening.

“Now what?” Hurst muttered.

“I expect they have
keelarim
down there,” Gantor whispered back. “They haven’t seen him turn the worm, so they’ll want proof of that.”

“Did they accept the rest of it, d’you think?”

But Gantor just shrugged.

“At least they haven’t drawn their swords yet,” Trimon said, his fingers moving restlessly on his bow.

After the glass roof was opened, the men operating the machinery dashed off into their own lines, and Hurst lost sight of them. There was a long pause, when nothing appeared to be happening. Apart from lowering his arm, Dethin remained still at the front of the plinth.

“What’s happening?” Walst hissed. He had been given strict instructions not to draw his sword, not even to rest his hand on the hilt, unless given an explicit order, but he clenched and released his sword hand repeatedly.

“Nothing,” Gantor said. “Have patience.”

Some metallic noises and then
–
crack
! Hurst jumped, and Walst’s hand shot to his sword before slowly dropping again. A loud rumble below ground. Loud clinking sounds, then a bellow reverberated around the court, like a giant kishorn.

“What the Vortex
—?” Trimon gasped, as another rumble shook the ground.

“Big
keelarim?
” Hurst said, puzzled.

Another bellow, louder, like thunder. Hurst winced, turning away. Still Dethin remained unmoving. Clinking again, scrabbling noises, more rumbling, a low growl, barely audible, felt in the chest.

“What
is
down there?” someone said.

Then an eruption of gleaming red scales, long neck, spikes everywhere and vast wings
– wings half the width of the court, flapping free, raising a storm of dust. Shrieking defiance, the beast tore screaming straight into the sky, until the chains caught it, tugged it back, held it in midair above their heads.

“By the Gods! A dragon!” said Gantor, awed.

“Ah,” said Tanist. “Not quite the sort of worm we were thinking of, eh? What a lot of legendary creatures we’re meeting lately.”

The dragon bellowed again, fought futilely against the chains which held it on both legs and round its neck, then settled awkwardly on the ground near the open hatch, chains clanking back into the void. It saw the golden lines of the Silent Guard, and with a low growl leaped and dived towards them. None of them moved, although one or two near the front flinched. Again the chains held it, and it settled on a nearby plinth, wings outstretched, screaming its fury. Another leap and one of the chains holding its neck snapped.