Bound in Stone 3

by K. M. Frontain

  ***

  “Get him off my brother!” Ufrid barked.

  Vik rose and confronted him. “Don’t use that tone on him!” he snapped. “This man felled the Shadow Master while you were absent.”

  Ufrid flushed beneath his censorious stare. “I was delayed by the flood! I told you! Ask anyone with me!”

  Vik snarled noiselessly. Behind him, Oswell lifted Brother Herfod. “Come on, Vik,” he said. “We need to take care of him.”

  Vik whirled away from Ufrid and stalked after Oswell. Henrel staggered in their wake with Keth stumbling along at his side. Rather than physical pain, exhaustion and grief crippled Keth’s movements. His terrible injuries had been healed. All he had to show outwardly for his valour was a deep scar across the side of his head, another over his gut and two on a leg.

  Brother Samel stepped into the gap they had left and knelt at the dead king’s side. “Oh, Ugoth!” he said. “You were blessed, so very blessed. An angel gave his life for you.”

  Above Samel, Ufrid’s eyes bittered with hatred. He turned away and stomped down the hill. “Where are the bones!” he shouted at Abbot Vehre. “Where did your monks take them?”

  “What do you want them for?” the holy man demanded. “We will take care of them. It is our right and duty.”

  “They are too valuable to be left in the care of aged monks.”

  “You miserable, greedy coward!” Vehre snarled.

  Outraged, his secret guilt harshly pinched, Ufrid pulled his sword. “I am not a coward!” he screamed. “I was delayed!”

  “Prince Ufrid,” a calm voice interjected. “Ignore this wayward monk. He is distraught. He lost a lover during the battle.”

  Bishop Petrin walked forward, his hands clasped in a point before his chest. His expression was beatific, but his words were daggers. “The gods have punished him for the breach of his holy vows. Let him be.”

  “You spineless eunuch!” Vehre spat at the priest. “The gods will punish Ufrid for failing the king. He let two blessed creatures die. Heaven will never forgive him!”

  Vehre stomped away. Ufrid stared after him, his face white.

  “Do not be concerned, Prince Ufrid. I was with you, and I know you were truthfully delayed.”

  “But the gods might punish me for it anyway,” Ufrid said.

  “There is clemency to be had in prayer,” Petrin told him. “Come. Kneel with me. We will pray together.”

  “Yes,” Ufrid agreed numbly. He let the man pull him down. He listened to the bishop pray to the faceless gods and he stared up the hill at his dead brother. Marun was dead. His brother was dead. What did he have to worry over?

  Nothing!

  But he remembered Brother Herfod’s eyes as they had opened to stare at him. There had been something there, something lurking in that gaze. It had been cold and powerful.

  Ufrid shivered with dread.

  ***

  He panted in the darkness. He was alone. He was afraid. Confusion and the blackness of the night had combined to separate him from his companions. He wanted to call to them, but he feared discovery. Hoping he’d hear a welcome sound such as men speaking his language, he stopped to catch his breath and listen for echoes in the dark.

  “Stohar!” a voice cackled.

  He jerked upright and glared about balefully. “Who is that?”

  A foreign word answered him. He started backward, but then realized the voice had been female. He halted. “Come here, woman!”

  A short, squat figure filtered out of the darkness. She was ugly and filthy.

  It was one of the hags. He cried out and turned to run.

  Too late! She cursed him, and he toppled on the dirt. He smelled her as she approached. She was vile. He couldn’t move to see her. He couldn’t plead for mercy. He couldn’t even retch because of her stench. She crowed above him, her voice evil and delighted.

  “Supper!” she said clearly in Stohar. “Good!”

  She pulled the knife from his boot sheath and used the blade to cut the straps of his armour, but when she reached his waist, she shrieked and her hands left him. He couldn’t begin to guess why, but he was abysmally grateful.

  Looming over his back, the hag stared down. There, tucked into the waist of his breaches, was one luminous white feather. After minutes just staring at it, she turned her attention elsewhere. She picked at his leather breeches on the backside, pulled the material and hacked off a large rectangle from it, baring one side of his buttocks. She made use of the cut leather to pluck the feather out, after which she cautiously folded the material over the plume, taking care not to touch the divine remnant. She tucked the hazardous package in her girdle. Later she would wrap it in mud and grass. Then it would be safer to transport.

  Reminded that the gods were, for a change, actually paying attention to what occurred on the earth, she decided to forego a feast. She hewed a slice of flesh off her victim’s haunch and waddled off with it.

  The lone Stohar warrior lay still in her wake and prayed to the gods in gratitude for his spared life. But divinity did not watch him that night. No, it had drifted after the hag and the single feather tucked into her girdle.

  ***

  Domel pulled the horse forward. The cart creaked and he shuddered in trepidation. Every time the axle squealed, he thought he’d bring the enemy down on him or one of Marun’s former allies. So far, he’d been ignored by any who had seen him. He hoped it was because they were afraid to go near him. If so, he’d make it back to the hideaway safely. If not …. Well, they’d likely hack him apart for being Marun’s slave.

  He glanced back at the cart. He’d piled it with provisions earlier that day. He intended to pass himself off as a tinker until he arrived in Winfel. He spoke Omeran well enough, having been born one. It seemed so long ago. But it didn’t matter what he’d been born as; he was only a slave now.

  “I’ll take the mirror back,” he whispered to himself. “I’ll hide it where he told me; then I’m going to take his treasures and live.”

  Yes, he would. Marun’s last command bound him hard. He must do this task, but there would be no other commands. Once he had the mirror safely hidden, he would be free to live his life as he pleased.

  “And it’s not going to be with a man!” he hissed. No, it wasn’t!

  Domel smiled and then flinched as the wheel squeaked yet again.

  ***

  The morning after the battle, Prince Ufrid stared down the slope at the devastation that met his eyes. Fully half of Ugoth’s forces had been decimated yesterday. Bodies littered the mount. The soldiers not wounded were slowly carrying the dead to the burial site. Monks wandered the field searching for living casualties. The holy brothers had been working through the night, mostly in vain. Off in the distance, the enemy army had abandoned the better part of its belongings and supplies. Scavenging villagers had returned to plunder whatever remained.

  Ufrid had sent searchers out the night before. They had returned with their pockets filled, but the great mirror had not been found. He suspected the Stohar king must have fled with it, that or the Winfellan king. Either monarch might succeed in carrying the powerful artefact out of Omera. Ufrid had too few men to risk chasing them down. With no better choice, he permitted the enemy to flee, unmolested and unpunished.

  The sound of someone stumbling on stone interrupted Ufrid’s survey. He turned his head. Bishop Petrin climbed to meet him.

  “Highness,” Petrin greeted. “I have prayed this morning. I have listened. The gods punished your brother! He was perverted!” Ufrid stared at him. Petrin realized that the revelation had rendered the royal prince speechless and spoke again. “Highness? Are you well?”

  “But an angel came down,” Ufrid said in protest.

  “He was meant to stop the evil one,” Petrin replied firmly. “The king distracted him from his duty.”

  “The gods told you this?” It was unbelievable!

  “Yes,” the bishop affirmed.

  “No!” Ufrid sai
d in denial. The angel had come for Ugoth. Samel had said so. What was going on here? “Brother Samel has said otherwise!”

  “I have asked the gods about this same thing,” the bishop said. “I was answered that the Turamen monks do not see all truths.”

  “Truths?” Ufrid repeated. Did the gods see the truth about him?

  “The Turamen brothers interfere too much,” Petrin went on. “Look at them! Healing everyone! The gods have called the righteous fallen to the Heavens. The monks heal indiscriminately. They ask no guidance. They demand from the gods and refuse Heaven to the courageous. It is for this reason so many followers of Turamen died in this war. They were punished too.”

  “Yes,” Ufrid murmured. They had discussed this tenet of the new sect before. Fatal wounds, deadly diseases: these were the will of the gods. The supplicant must beg for grace to have his life spared. The petitioner must bestow his wealth on the church. He must make the church stronger. The gods looked kindly upon benefactors. Remembering this, Ufrid knew what he must do to survive the wrath of the gods. “I will give you a basilica, Bishop,” he pronounced. “Will that suffice for these men?”

  Petrin’s eyes widened. Ufrid observed the avarice light his face. “A basilica?” the priest repeated.

  “Send your priests out to pray for healing, Father,” Ufrid directed, barely able to withhold the scorn he felt.

  “Yes,” Petrin said. “Yes! That will suffice! We will put the bones of the holy child in it! It will be a blessed place!” He hurried down the slope.

  Ufrid glared after him. His mouth turned down in a disgusted sneer. Once the holy man had descended a sufficient distance, Ufrid lifted the hand mirror out from his cloak and looked into it. Eshaia peered out at him. Her face was drawn with fatigue.

  “You look unwell, Queen Eshaia,” he said distantly.

  “I have not been sleeping well,” she admitted.

  “Worried about your husband?”

  “No!” she hissed.

  “He’s dead.”

  Her face froze into an expression of shock.

  “Eshaia! Cover the great mirror! Marun is dead as well! The next man to visit you may do so to take your head.” Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be one of his men.

  “Oh!” The image shifted. It went black. Ufrid waited. Her reflection returned shortly after. “I have covered it!” she cried.

  “Good. Do not uncover it again.”

  “When will you be back?” she asked.

  “Soon.”

  “Is he dead? Is the monk dead, too?”

  “No. He lives.”

  She stared at him, her face blank. “Oh,” she said belatedly. “That’s too bad.”

  “Isn’t it? I will speak with you again later, my love. Go and rest. It is over. You have won your revenge.”

  “Yes,” she said, but her expression held no triumph. It was bleak, the skin of her face more pale than before.

  The image rotated toward the wall and then to vivid blue silk. Presently the smooth surface displayed only Ufrid’s face. He lowered the device and replaced it in his cloak. When he turned, he nearly fell backward.

  “Brother Herfod!”

  The monk stood a mere ten feet from him. He was dressed as a holy brother again, in a grey habit with mantle and cowl, but the brightness of crimson had been stripped clean from his figure. His hair had been razed to his scalp and his beard shaved off, so too his eyebrows. Even his lashes had been plucked. His flesh was an ill grey and his mouth tight as if he repressed pain. He looked as bleak as a ghoul.

  “Brother Herfod,” Ufrid repeated, more than a little shocked by his denuded aspect. “What do you here?”

  “I but look,” he responded. “I look at the next king of Ulmenir.”

  Ufrid blinked in surprise. The fear in his heart swelled. He would have stepped backward, but he would only have fallen down the mount.

  “I have something for you,” the monk said. “But I don’t want to give it yet. It comforts me to feel it inside.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Your eyes aren’t as blue. They aren’t as predatory. Did you know that? You’re like a poor copy.”

  Ufrid’s lips turned back in a snarl of resentment.

  The monk’s curled up in a faint smile. “Marun’s not dead,” he said next.

  Ufrid whitened. “But …! But they said you took up the angel’s sword and it blasted him asunder!”

  Herfod laughed derisively. “He can’t die that easily.”

  Ufrid stared. The fear was completely hooked into his soul. Here, in the open, he could not attack. He could do nothing but wait for the monk to denounce him.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Brother Herfod advised. “He won’t come back to revenge himself on you. You’ll be long dead before he thinks to try again, before she forces him to. He’ll resist her for a long while before she manages to use him a second time.”

  The Shadow Master was the least of Ufrid’s worries. The eerie man before him concerned him most. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “No. You don’t. You’re only a minor character in a very large story,” the monk mocked him. “Don’t feel too bad about it. I think I am as well. I just wish I hadn’t managed to get written into this chapter.” He turned away.

  Confused, stunned, Ufrid watched him go. He remained perfectly still, staring even after the monk vanished amongst the rubble on the crown of the mount. His mind raced.

  “King of Ulmenir!” he whispered. The monk had named him the next king.

  He knew! The monk knew what he’d done. He knew what he intended. Why hadn’t he condemned him? Would he tell later? Did he hope to protect Ugoth’s children somehow?

  Ufrid’s brows furrowed. “What does he have for me?”

  He didn’t want it. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t have it. He must keep Brother Herfod away from him, come what may.

  He reeled about and slid down the slate toward the black-garbed figures walking through the carpet of dead. Bishop Petrin would protect him. He still thought Herfod was a demon in disguise. There would be safety with the sect of Heavenly Light.

  ***

  Three days later, they had buried the dead, friend and foe. The Turamen and Carmet monks prayed over the mass graves. Evil would never raise the bodies again.

  There only remained one corpse to bury, but that one would be interred in Durgven. The devastated Ulmeniran army marched back to the capitol, victorious but silent, for it was a burial march.

  Ufrid looked at the covered bier on the back of the wagon he followed. A dim glow of blue enveloped it. To prevent decomposition, a protective prayer had been chanted over his brother’s cadaver. Ufrid suspected Brother Herfod had done it, though he hadn’t seen the monk since the morning after the battle. Herfod had disappeared amongst the holy brothers and showed his face to no one but them.

  Rumours had spread within the army; Brother Herfod had placed a cowl of silence over his hairless scalp; he’d refused to speak since the last of the wounded had been healed. Some said he wasn’t eating either. Another story floated about that he suffered a strange debilitating pain from some unknown internal injury that could not be located or healed.

  Ufrid had mentioned that rumour to Bishop Petrin. Petrin had said the demon suffered the consequences of daring to touch a divine sword. Petrin had an unpopular view on the miraculous defeat of the sorcerer. According to him, Brother Herfod had been the Shadow Master’s familiar. The sorcerer had ordered Brother Herfod to take up the sword, but the heavenly weapon had recognised him as evil and used him to destroy his own master. Petrin said the divine power was now eating the demon from the inside out. If so, Ufrid hoped it killed Herfod soon.

  Petrin’s abhorrence for the monk met with little sympathy from listeners other than Ufrid and the priests of Heavenly Light. The bishop had taken a black eye for his temerity on one occasion. On another, someone had tried to strangle him. He’d learned to shut his mouth about his opinion. The rest of the army uttere
d Herfod’s name with reverence. Only Ufrid’s dead brother evoked the same degree of veneration.

  Ugoth. Damn him. Even in death, he ruled the hearts of his people. All compared Ufrid to his dead brother and found him wanting. He witnessed visible disappointment, dissatisfaction, withdrawal.

  You bastard! He thought it at the bier, though cursing did nothing to satisfy his anger.

  Riding at Ufrid’s side, Petrin started another prayer. Damn that man! Ufrid wanted to chop his head off or pull out his tongue, but he needed him. He listened impatiently. Once more the bishop pleaded for guidance, begging the gods to lead him to the missing bones of the angel. Yes, the damned bones. Plead for them again, you avaricious, spiritual miser.

  But Ufrid regretted the loss of the bones as much as Petrin. Despite armed guards and diligent monks, the skeleton had disappeared the second night. A small figure had been seen running off in the darkness, but the pursuers had lost the culprit within seconds of starting the chase. Extensive searches had not uncovered the location of the skeleton. Ufrid was most definitely as upset as Petrin. Gods! An entire skeleton of diamond, and some piddling thief had absconded with it.

  Petrin still thought a monk was responsible, a rebellious monk who refused royal orders to place the holy relics in the bishop’s official care. An inquiry had been held, a last attempt to uncover the wrongdoer. Bishop Petrin had chanted a ring of truth with his priests and afterward forced each monk to step in and answer a question.

  The same question; the same answer every time.

  “Did you steal the angel’s bones?”

  “No!”

  And always the glow of truth at each declaration of innocence, even for Brother Herfod, who had whispered a last negative, turned away and taken up his vow of silence.

  The bones were gone. Just gone. Ufrid wanted to tell Petrin to shut the hells up about them, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he stared at his brother’s bier and smouldered silently.