Fall of Thanes

From First Tales transcribed by Quenquane the Simple

I

The main gates of the Battle Inkall’s sprawling compound were closed and barred. Theor of the Lore leaned out from his rocking litter as the bearers stumbled through the snow towards the imposing and entirely unwelcoming facade. The low wall stretching away on either side of the gate was lined with Inkallim: statues of black leather, each with a tall spear held perfectly erect. And, outside the gates, a still more numerous host. Seventy or more of Ragnor oc Gyre’s warriors. His Shield, in polished chain mail that borrowed a dull gleam from the grey sky; mounted spearmen, whose horses bore metal plates across their brows and cheeks. And the High Thane himself, massive and magnificent in a huge cloak of sable fur that spread back over the haunches of his own great mount. Theor’s litter-bearers struggled along the front of this martial array, and came to a panting, trembling halt before Ragnor. The High Thane stared down silently as Theor clambered stiffly out. The First’s feet crunched into the snow, and he felt its cold pressure even through the down-lined hide of his boots. He straightened, and ground his fingers into the small of his back where the muscles had tightened. “What are you doing here, First?” the High Thane asked. Blunt. Confrontational, unless Theor misread him entirely. “I heard there was some difficulty,” Theor said. “I thought I might be of assistance in resolving any misunderstanding that may have arisen.” “No misunderstanding.” A breeze ruffled the High Thane’s hair and spun his horse’s steaming breath away. Theor winced up at him, narrowing his eyes. It was not easy to see details of his expression, silhouetted as he was against the sun-lightened afternoon clouds. His voice was giving little away now, only a steely determination. “Ah.” Theor nodded. He glanced towards the Inkallim studding the top of the wall, and then back to Ragnor. “I will confer with those within, High Thane.” Ragnor said nothing. Theor turned and trudged towards the gates, beckoning his exhausted bearers to follow him with their burden. It was not far from the Lore’s Sanctuary, further along the slopes above Kan Dredar, but they had covered the distance quickly. Theor had understood the need for haste as soon as word of what was happening reached him. He had not wanted to come. The Sanctuary he had left behind him was in a ferment of dismay and alarm. Two Lore Inkallim had inexplicably died, on successive nights, while dreaming their seerstem dreams. And they had died not peacefully, but screaming, convulsing. “I told you what I wanted,” he heard Ragnor saying behind him, in measured tones. “And that my patience was at an end.” Theor paused. He angled his head a fraction towards his shoulder but did not look round. One of the gates creaked open, just wide enough to admit him and his attendants, and he entered the domain of the Battle. “I did not know you were here,” Theor said to Ave