House of Chains

‘You three will not survive the night.’

‘It will be interesting, do you not think,’ Karsa smiled, ‘who among Bairoth, Delum and me will find need for it first.’ He addressed all the women. ‘I suggest to each of you to be eager, so you are not the first to fail us.’

Bairoth appeared, nodded at Karsa.

The chief’s wife sighed and waved her daughter forward.

‘No,’ Karsa said.

The woman stopped, suddenly confused. ‘But… will you not want a child from this? Your first will carry the most seed-’

‘Aye, it will. Are you past bearing age?’

After a long moment, she shook her head. ‘Karsa Orlong,’ she whispered, ‘you invite my husband to set upon you a curse-he will burn blood on the stone lips of Imroth herself.’

‘Yes, that is likely.’ Karsa dismounted and approached her. ‘Now, lead me to your house.’

She drew back. ‘The house of my husband? Warleader-no, please, let us choose another one-’

‘Your husband’s house,’ Karsa growled. ‘I am done talking and so are you.’

An hour before dusk, and Karsa led the last of his prizes towards the house-the chief’s daughter. He and Bairoth and Delum had not needed the blood-oil, a testament, Bairoth claimed, to Uryd prowess, though Karsa suspected the true honour belonged to the zeal and desperate creativity of the women of the Rathyd, and even then, the last few for each of the warriors had been peremptory.

As he drew the young woman into the gloomy house with its dying hearth, Karsa swung shut the door and dropped the latch. She turned to face him, a curious tilt to her chin.

‘Mother said you were surprisingly gentle.’

He eyed her. She is as Dayliss, yet not. There is no dark streak within this one. That is… a difference. ‘Remove your clothes.’

She quickly climbed out of the one-piece hide tunic. ‘Had I been first, Karsa Orlong, I would have made home for your seed. Such is this day in my wheel of time.’

‘You would have been proud?’

She paused to give him a startled look, then shook her head. ‘You have slain all the children, all the elders. It will be centuries before our village recovers, and indeed it may not, for the anger of the warriors may turn them on each other, and on us women-should you escape.’

‘Escape? Lie down, there, where your mother did. Karsa Orlong is not interested in escape.’ He moved forward to stand over her. ‘Your warriors will not be returning. The life of this village is ended, and within many of you there shall be the seed of the Uryd. Go there, all of you, to live among my people. And you and your mother, go to the village where I was born. Await me. Raise your children, my children, as Uryd.’

‘You make bold claims, Karsa Orlong.’

He began removing his leathers.

‘More than claims, I see,’ she observed. ‘No need, then, for blood-oil.’

‘We will save the blood-oil, you and I, for my return.’

Her eyes widened and she leaned back as he moved down over her. In a small voice, she asked, ‘Do you not wish to know my name?’

‘No,’ he growled. ‘I will call you Dayliss.’

And he saw nothing of the shame that filled her young, beautiful face. Nor did he sense the darkness his words clawed into her soul.

Within her, as within her mother, Karsa Orlong’s seed found a home.

A late storm had descended from the mountains, devouring the stars. Treetops thrashed to a wind that made no effort to reach lower, creating a roar of sound overhead and a strange calm among the boles. Lightning flickered, but the thunder’s voice was long in coming.

They rode through an hour of darkness, then found an old campsite near the trail the hunt had left. The Rathyd warriors had been careless in their fury, leaving far too many signs of their passage. Delum judged that there were twelve adults and four youths on horseback in this particular party, perhaps a third of the village’s entire strength. The dogs had already been set loose to range in packs on their own, and none accompanied the group the Uryd now pursued.

Karsa was well pleased. The hornets were out of the nest, yet flying blind.

They ate once more of the ageing bear meat, then Bairoth once again unwrapped the bear skull and resumed winding straps, this time around the snout, pulling them taut between the teeth. The ends left dangling were long, an arm and a half in length. Karsa now understood what Bairoth was fashioning. Often, two or three wolf skulls were employed for this particular weapon-only a man of Bairoth’s strength and weight could manage the same with the skull of a grey bear. ‘Bairoth Gild, what you create shall make a bright thread in the legend we are weaving.’

The man grunted. ‘I care nothing for legends, Warleader. But soon, we shall be facing Rathyd on destriers.’

Karsa smiled in the darkness, said nothing.

A soft wind flowed down from upslope.

Delum lifted his head suddenly and rose in silence. ‘I smell wet fur,’ he said.

There had been no rain as yet.

Karsa removed his sword harness and laid the weapon down. ‘Bairoth,’ he whispered, ‘remain here. Delum, take with you your brace of knives-leave your sword.’ He rose and gestured. ‘Lead.’

‘Warleader,’ Delum murmured. ‘It is a pack, driven down from the high ground by the storm. They have no scent of us, yet their ears are sharp.’

‘Do you not think,’ Karsa asked, ‘that they would have set to howling if they had heard us?’

Bairoth snorted. ‘Delum, beneath this roar they have heard nothing.’

But Delum shook his head. ‘There are high sounds and there are low sounds, Bairoth Gild, and they each travel their own stream.’ He swung to Karsa. ‘To your question, Warleader, this answer: possibly not, if they are unsure whether we are Uryd or Rathyd.’

Karsa gri

Havok and the other two destriers had quietly flanked the warriors during the conversation, and now all faced upslope, ears pricked forward.

After a moment’s hesitation, Delum shrugged and, crouching, set off into the woods. Karsa followed.

The slope grew steeper after a score of paces. There was no path, and fallen tree trunks made traverse difficult and slow, though thick swaths of damp moss made the passage of the two Teblor warriors virtually noiseless. They reached a flatter shelf perhaps fifteen paces wide and ten deep, a high crack-riven cliff opposite. A few trees leaned against the rock, grey with death. Delum sca

He leaned close. ‘How far ahead?’

‘Fifty heartbeats. We’ve still time to make this climb-’

‘No. We position ourselves here. Take that ledge to the right and have your knives ready.’

With baffled expression, Delum did as he was told. The ledge was halfway up the cliffside. Within moments he was in place.

Karsa moved towards the game trail. A dead pine had fallen from above, taking the same path in its descent, coming to rest half a pace to the trail’s left. Karsa reached it and gave the trunk a nudge. The wood was still sound. He quickly climbed it, then, feet resting on branches, he twisted round until he faced the flat expanse of shelf, the game trail now almost within arm’s reach to his left, the bole and cliff at his back.

Then he waited. He could not see Delum from his position unless he leaned forward, which might well pull the tree away from the cliffside, taking him with it in a loud, probably damaging fall. He would have to trust, therefore, that Delum would grasp what he intended, and act accordingly when the time came.