“But everything here is mine, little man,” said Gurdig, slashing again. Unver leaped backward over the pit before he could be driven into the flames, but landed badly; when he turned, he could barely stand straight. Several of the other clansmen moved to shove him back toward Gurdig, but the thane waved them off and began to stalk Unver, the fire now between them.
The trees were thick with crows. Their squawking cries almost overtopped the shouts of Gurdig’s men, and even in the midst of all that was happening before her, Hyara felt a moment of superstitious dread. Nesting season for the black birds was over. Where had they all come from? It was like the famous story of Edizel Shan, when the crows came from all over the world to salute the hero’s birth. But sometimes they came to herald a disaster, too.
For long moments Unver kept the fire between them, but Hyara knew the stalemate could not last long: the younger man was staggering, while her husband had not only the advantage of size but was not covered with bruises and bleeding welts from a beating as his opponent was. Gurdig already seemed almost bored with the chase; after a feint first to one side and then the other, the March-thane leaped over the fire pit and landed on the other side with a thump of impact and a scatter of sparks. Now nothing lay between him and the stranger but trampled grass. Swiping his blade again and again like a scythe, Gurdig drove the other man toward the ring of spectators, but they only fell back a little way before stopping. When Unver reached them, rough hands shoved him back toward Gurdig.
“I did not come seeking a fight,” he said, breathing hard, blood bubbling in the corner of his mouth. “But you and your people gave me the back of your hand.”
“I don’t care if you came in a wagon with golden wheels.” Gurdig was now nearly within the span of his long blade. “You forced your way into the March-thane’s wagon. You struck my cousin. That is enough to earn you death and a vulture’s belly for your grave, No-Clan.”
“Then strike,” said Unver, and lowered his arms. Many of those watching gasped in surprise or perhaps disappointment. “I will be happy to leave this world behind.”
Suddenly there was a vast clatter and a chorus of shrill, creaking cries. Crows came swirling out of the nearby trees like a black cyclone, swirling up and out. But instead of flying away, the birds turned and stooped abruptly on the camp, wings and beaks everywhere, crowing in their flat, urgent voices. The onlookers shouted in surprise, throwing up their hands to protect themselves as the cloud of black birds dropped on them. Some of the clansfolk broke and ran away; others fell to their knees, but the thickest part of the flock descended on Gurdig and Unver. The March-thane, suddenly blinded by wings and bright eyes, whipped his heavy blade from side to side like a horsewhip, knocking black shapes from the air. Most of those struck fell to the ground around him, but a few were batted into the fire.
“The stranger called the birds,” someone cried. “He is a witch!”
“No!” roared Gurdig. “He is my meat!” Hyara’s husband had been forced back almost to the fire pit by the flurry of squawking shapes. The sword Vorzheva had thrown her son lay at Unver’s feet where it had fallen, still untouched. Gurdig’s violent swings began to drive away the nearest of the crows. Others had taken to the sky and were barely visible against the deep evening blue, wheeling just overhead, still croaking in what sounded like outrage or warning.
Facing him, only a few paces away, Unver did not attempt to defend himself again, but looked up at the sky and the circling birds. The firelight turned his features into a stony carving, a mask of resignation or even perhaps peace. His arms still hung at his sides as Gurdig came toward him with his curved sword swept back for the killing blow. Then a blazing ball of feathers burst out of the fire pit and flew awkwardly into the air, shedding sparks like a comet, before it swooped down and flew directly into Gurdig’s face. He bellowed in surprise and pain as the burning crow battered him with its fiery wings and became entangled in his beard. His efforts to knock the thing away only made it cling more fiercely, until the dying bird was screeching as loudly as the thane, whose beard now curled and smoked where the crow clung to it.
A moment later Unver lurched forward, picked the slender sword from the ground, then lunged toward Gurdig and buried the point three handspan’s deep in the March-thane’s burly chest.
The dead crow fell away from Gurdig’s face and dropped to the ground, feathers almost extinguished, all movement ended. Gurdig’s eyes bulged in disbelief as he looked from the crow to the shining length of Naidel jutting just beneath his breastbone. He opened his mouth to say something but only blood issued from his lips, then he slowly sank to his knees before toppling face first to the ground like a falling tree.
Unver stood over him, expressionless, staring at nothing. The crows overhead began to settle back into the trees around the camp, their harsh cries changing to something more muted, the branches sagging as they gathered once more.
None of the crowd touched Unver. Nobody dared to come near to either the March-thane or his killer. Instead they stood, awestruck and terrified. Someone shouted “murderer!” but another cried, “The crows knew!”
Like Edizel Shan, Hyara thought, stunned and helpless. The birds swarmed at Edizel’s birth and flew through the fire. She stared at her husband’s body, at Gurdig’s sightless eyes staring up into the night, but she felt nothing. He had been her world, and a cruel world it had been. Now he was dead. She felt nothing at all. She could not understand how everything in her life had changed so much in the space between twilight and dark.
She was still standing when Vorzheva led her son back to the steps of the thane’s wagon. Still as speechless as an infant, he let her seat him there. Some of those who had been watching now came forward to gather silently around the body of the March-thane. Others stared at Unver where he sat on the steps, bleeding and silent, the slender, red-smeared sword still gripped in his hand.
“My father is dead,” said Vorzheva. She almost sang it, as though the words were a cradle song. “Fikolmij is dead. And Gurdig is dead.” Now she raised her voice, so everyone could hear. “The March-thane Gurdig is dead, in fair combat. The gods spoke—you all saw. My son is March-thane now.” She put her hand on his head, but he seemed not to feel or even notice. “And you will make them all pay, now that you have returned to me. You will show them blood and fire, my son—all the clans, and the stonedwellers too. You will show them blood and fire!”
Unver remained silent. All around the camp wide-eyed clansfolk whispered to one another, looking from the thane’s corpse to the black birds still watching from the trees.
At last, as if waking from one dream and passing into another, Hyara went to help her sister wash Unver’s wounds and bandage them with clean white linen.
53
Their Masters’ Folly
It was a terrifying journey down the wide Avenue of the Martyred Drukhi. The weight of her few belongings and the food she was carrying meant she had to go slowly—not that Tzoja would have dared to walk much faster even if she could. No slave ever wanted to attract attention so they all went at much the same pace, just fast enough not to be accused of slacking, but not so swift as to attract the attention of suspicious guards.
The thoroughfare was dazzlingly lit by Nakkiga’s standards, with a torch column at every crossing, but the light for which Tzoja was usually so grateful now made her feel conspicuous and vulnerable. She pulled the hood of her cloak down as far as she dared as a trio of fully armored Sacrifices walked past. But the soldiers were discussing something and did not even look at her. When they were gone, she stepped up out of the gutter and continued on. The streets were quiet, which was not unusual—unless there was a public celebration, Nakkiga was never noisy—but also strangely empty. Something was happening, Tzoja could tell.
Nothing to me, she reminded herself. It’s nothing to me. Head down, walk straight, don’t bump into any Hikeda’ya and don’t look up unless someone addresses me. It was a good thing that all slaves in Nakkiga were frightened of being noticed, because that was at least one way in which Tzoja did not have to pretend.
She turned off the broad avenue into the slightly less daunting confines of the Street of Sacred Discipline, a shadowy, narrow passage with old stone houses looming close on both sides. Some of the buildings were training dormitories for the Order of Song, which made her anxious—even the youngest Singers were strange and could be full of disturbing surprises—but at this hour of the clock they should be at their academies, and it was by far the fastest way to the city’s outer roads.