Free The Plains of Kallanash by Pauline M. Ross

last time Karningholders settled things that way. One of the wives died in childbirth, and within a few weeks the arrows were flying. But there is always a lot of chatter about the Karningholders. I don’t regard it much. The villagers need something to talk about, after all.”
    “I have no idea whether it will come to that,” Mia said. She tried to keep her tone light, but she couldn't help shivering. “I hope not, but – who knows? It’s for the men to decide.”
    “It is a strange business,” the Slave said, eyeing Mia. “Karninghold marriages are a mystery to me. Why don’t they send another wife to make up the numbers?”
    “It’s not allowed, it has to be pairs, and a new pair has to be earned by promotion to a Karning that needs it.”
    “Yes, but why isn’t it allowed?”
    Mia chuckled. “One of the scholars once told me that it’s because a woman is not necessary to the marriage, except to have children. If one wife dies, there is still another.”
    “Yet having only one wife is regarded as so intolerable that the husbands are allowed to try to kill each other!”
    “Well, it isn’t quite like that!” Mia said, with a half-smile. “And you can’t actually kill anyone with a blue arrow – or so I’ve read. You mark them with it, and then the Gods decide.”
    “As they decide everything under the sun,” the Slave said piously, touching her forehead in the ritual prayer movement.
    Mia bowed her head, and made the same gesture. “Let us hope they have no plans to take Jonnor or Hurst just yet.”

     
    6: Skirmishes (Hurst)
    Hurst’s horse shifted under him, sensing his excitement. He stroked her neck absently. “Easy, girl. We’ll be moving soon enough.”
    Alongside him, Gantor murmured, “Almost time.”
    They formed part of a ring of mounted Skirmishers defending their flag hill, rather a grandiose name for such a scuffed and weatherbeaten mound of earth, the summit not much higher than Hurst’s head. In front of them was the skirmish field, a quarter-mile of churned mud. Beyond that a line of battered wooden poles marked the boundary between their own Karning and their northern neighbour, with its matching skirmish field and flag hill. In the distance, Hurst could just make out the coloured tabard of Kelmannor, his opposite number, to one side of his hill.
    Gantor’s role was to keep his eyes fixed on a third hill some distance away, positioned directly on the boundary line. It boasted a small wooden hut for the observers, and the clock pole for the flags which marked the hours and sixths. “The last small flag is going up… now. It’s time.”
    “Begin,” Hurst said.
    Gantor scratched his nose. Further off, a Skirmisher closed his visor with a snap. Hurst dared not turn his head to watch in case it alerted Kelmannor, but he knew his eccentric signals were being conveyed from one group of men to the next. Eventually the message would reach a cluster of riders milling about on the edge of a copse some distance away.
    Hurst felt the familiar flutter of excitement. Too late now to wonder whether his strategy would work. As always, his mind cleared and he began to focus on these last, crucial few moments before the end of the flag phase of the skirmish. He waited.
    Yes! There he was! A single horseman in Hurst’s colours burst into the open from the copse, his head hunched low over his mount’s neck. He tore across the skirmish field towards the opposition’s flag hill, a brightly coloured flag tied to his saddle. Across the boundary, a group of Kelmannor’s Skirmishers spurred into action, racing to intercept him, but they were sluggish by comparison.
    Hurst watched in silence, rather impressed. The rider was Walst, one of his two younger Companions, a skilled swordsman, but not normally noted for his ability on horseback.
    Gantor laughed. “Look at him go! He’s across the boundary already. Gods, I think he’s actually going to make it!”
    It looked as if Kelmannor’s