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
