Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  * * *

  Most mornings Ivanr awoke shortly after dawn. As an officer he had the privilege of a private tent, which servants attached to the brigade raised and struck each day. It was framed with poles set into the ground and others laid atop as crosspieces. Felt cloth wrapped it against the cold of the region’s winter. The bedding was of woven blankets over sheep hides. Rising, he straddled the honeypot and eased his taut bladder, then pulled on a long tunic of linen and quilted wool that hung down to the thighs of his buckskin pants. He rewrapped the rags round his feet and strapped on sandals that tied up just beneath his knees.

  A cup of tea and a flatbread lay on a board set just inside the flap. Taking them up, he thrust aside the cloth to find a crowd of men and women sitting in a semicircle before his tent. He stared. They stared back. Steam from his tea plumed in the frigid dawn air.

  ‘Yes? What?’

  One old fellow raised a staff to lever himself upright; the others followed his lead. He looked familiar but Ivanr couldn’t quite place him.

  ‘Hail, Ivanr. I bring the word of the Priestess.’

  Now he knew him: the old pilgrim he’d met months ago. He eyed the crowd, uneasy. ‘Yes? What of it?’

  The pilgrim inclined his head as if in prayer. ‘I bring her last instructions, given just as she was taken from us.’

  ‘She’s … dead?’

  ‘We do not know. She was imprisoned at Abor.’

  Ivanr grunted his understanding. ‘I’m sorry. She was … something special.’

  ‘Yes, she was. Is. And her last words speak of you.’

  Now his empty stomach twisted, and to fortify himself he took most of the tea and a bite of the bread. Now what? Just when he’d kicked the brigade into shape. Couldn’t she – they – just leave him alone? He looked over their heads to the stirring camp. Maybe he could just ignore them. They would be marching today, as usual. Keeping their pikes at the ready against the ranging Jourilan Imperial lights who relentlessly dogged them, harrying, darting in, skirmishing.

  The old pilgrim drew himself up straight. The wind tossed his thin grey hair and his robes licked about his staff. ‘The Priestess has spoken, Ivanr of Antr. Before she was taken away she named you her disciple, her true heir in the Path.’

  At these words the crowd reverently bowed their heads.

  Ivanr was struck speechless. Had they gone mad? Him? Heir to the Priestess’s mission? What did he know of this ‘Path’ of hers? He was a ridiculous choice. He shook his head, scowling. ‘No. Not me. Find someone else to follow around – or, better yet, don’t follow anyone. Following people only leads to trouble.’

  He dismissed them with a wave of his flatbread and walked off to find Lieutenant Carr.

  ‘As I warned you before, Ivanr,’ the old pilgrim called after him, ‘it is too late. Already many deny the Lady in your name. With or without you, it has begun. Your life these last few years has been nothing but denial and flight. Are you not tired of fleeing?’

  That last comment stopped him; but he did not turn round. After a pause, he continued on. No matter. Let the religion-mad fool rant. Faiths! Name one other thing that has brought more misery and murder into the world!

  That day they continued the long march north. Farmlands gave way to rolling pasture, copses of woods, and tracts of land given over to aristocratic estates and managed forests. Their pace had improved as the army now openly followed the roads laid down decades ago by the Imperial engineers. And always, hiding in the edges of copses, or walking the ridges of distant hills, the Jourilan light cavalry, watching, raiding pickets and falling upon smaller foraging parties.

  This incessant raiding drove Martal to order the baggage train moved to the interior of the column. The pike brigades marched ahead, behind, and to the sides. Archers ranged within their perimeter, ready to contribute to driving off the cavalry.

  Ivanr was sceptical of these bands of roving archers. Short-bows so cheaply made he could break them in his hands. He complained of them to Carr: ‘I could throw rocks farther than these can reach.’

  The lieutenant laughed as they walked along. It had rained the previous day, the winter season in Jourilan a time of dark skies and rainstorms, though this season had so far proved remarkably dry. Mud of the churned line of march weighted their feet and spattered their cloaks. ‘This is a peasant army, Ivanr. There are only a handful of professionally trained warriors with us. These farmers and burghers aren’t trained to pull a real bow. You know that takes years. Martal has to work with what she has at hand. And hence these bands of archers with short-bows. All those too young or old or weak to hoist the pikes.’

  Ivanr thought of the boy. He’d yet to find him among the regulars. Perhaps he’d been sent to pull a bow. He supposed that would make more sense. ‘And these hulking carriages?’

  Carr shrugged his ignorance. ‘That is Martal’s project entirely. I’m not sure what she has planned for them.’

  Ivanr didn’t believe a word of that. You know, Carr. You’ve been with Beneth for years. This army’s lousy with spies and you’re just keeping quiet. Very well. No doubt we’ll see sooner than we’d like.

  Over the next few days of marching, Ivanr managed to push the old man’s words from his thoughts. Among the men and women of his command he noted nothing more troubling than stares, hushed murmurs, and an unusual alacrity in obeying his orders. What disturbed him far more was the constant presence of Jourilan cavalry on the surrounding hillsides and always ranging ahead, just out of reach. Every passing day seemed to bring more, and as far as he could see Martal was content to do nothing about it. Poor Hegil Lesour ’an ’al, the Jourilan aristocrat commander of the Reform cavalry, was run ragged day and night ranging against the Imperial lights. Making it worse was the lack of winter rain; normally the fields and roads would be almost impassable this time of year.

  Eventually, Ivanr was fed up enough to put aside his determination to avoid Martal and any hint of his participating in the command structure, and fell back to where she rode with her staff at the head of the spine of the army, the long winding column of carriages. He waited until she rode abreast of him, her mount keeping an easy walking pace, then stepped up alongside her.

  Her blackened armour was covered by dust and mud kicked up in the march and a light misting spotted it in dark dots. She brushed a hand back through her short hair and nodded to him. ‘Ivanr. To what do we owe the honour?’

  ‘Honour? What do you mean, honour?’

  Martal’s smile was tight and wry. ‘Just the talk of everyone. How the Army of Reform is privileged to have with it the spiritual heir to the Priestess.’

  Ivanr was not amused; he eyed the woman thinly. ‘That would be Beneth, I’m sure.’

  ‘Beneth, I understand, sees himself as a prophet of the movement only. While she was its arrival … but all that is not my area of expertise.’ As she smiled down at him he thought she was deriving far too much amusement from his predicament. ‘Perhaps you should speak to him about it.’

  I’d rather stand the wall, Martal. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

  Now the lips crooked up. Her gaze roamed, scanning the ranks, or the surrounding copses and farmland. ‘No? Then what can I do for you?’

  Where was this woman from? Closer now, he thought her no native of the region. Her complexion was smooth, the hue of dark honey, her black hair thick and bristly. From some distant land like Genabackis? Or perhaps Quon Tali? Why not the lands south of the Great Ice Wastes? What of them? Ivanr almost asked but thought it too public here, surrounded by her staff and guards. In fact, the idea of a private conversation with this woman was suddenly very desirable. Realizing he was staring, he looked away, cleared his throat. ‘I’m here about horses.’

  She nodded appreciatively. ‘Really? I had no idea you were interested in horseflesh.’

  ‘Only when there’s more of it than I could possibly spear.’

  ‘Ah. You are concerned.’

  ‘Extremely.’

/>   ‘You are wondering what is going on.’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘I see.’ She drew off her black leather gloves, slapped them into a palm while looking ahead. ‘Now, let me understand this. You haven’t come to any staff briefings. You will not dine in Beneth’s tent. You refuse to participate in any of the command discussions. Yet now you come to me demanding to know what’s going on …’ She peered down at him and a mocking arched brow took the sting from her words. ‘Is that an accurate appraisal, Ivanr of Antr?’

  Ivanr lowered his gaze, grimacing. Aye, he deserved that. Can’t have it both ways. Either you’re in or you’re out. He looked up, acknowledging her point. ‘I suppose that’s about right.’ Somehow, he did not mind being teased by this woman.

  She was smiling quite openly now, looking ahead, and he studied the blunt profile of her flattened nose. ‘They’re all around us now,’ she said. ‘Massing for an attack. The traditional cavalry lancer charge that has scattered every tradesman rebellion, peasant army, and religious uprising before.’

  ‘What are they waiting for?’

  ‘Better terrain. North of us the land opens up. Broad pasturage, smooth hillsides. They’ll form up there and wait for us to arrive.’

  He swallowed, thinking: Now comes my question. ‘And you? What are you waiting for?’

  The dark eyes captured his gaze for an instant, unreadable, searching, then she looked skyward. ‘Rain, Ivanr. I’m waiting for more rain.’

  * * *

  At first Bakune refused to number the days of his imprisonment. He judged it irrelevant and frankly rather clichéd. But being imprisoned in a cell so narrow he could touch a hand to either side, and so short it was less than two of his paces, he almost immediately came to the realization that, in point of fact, there was little else for him to do.

  Those first few days he sat on his straw-padded cot attempting to calm himself to the point where he would not embarrass himself when they came to execute him. Each day that then passed, in his opinion, made that outcome less and less likely. After the first week he decided that he would be down here for some time; they must be planning to let him work upon himself in the solitude and the dark and the damp. So he attempted to cultivate a more distanced, even ironic, attitude. It simplified matters that he saw his predicament as so very rich in irony.

  Just how many men and women had he condemned to these very Carceral Quarters? More than he could easily quantify. What did he think of his country’s law enforcement regime now that he was the object – nay, perhaps victim – of it? Far less sanguine, he had to admit. These stone walls were scouring from his skin a certain insulating layer of smugness, a certain armouring of self-righteousness.

  By the second week he began to worry. Perhaps they really did have no intention of returning to him. Every passing day made that possibility ever more likely as well. What need had they of his endorsement now that their control grew ever more firm? Perhaps through his own stiff-necked pride he had succeeded only in making himself superfluous. Yet a part of him could not help but note: So this is the process … how many convicted had he himself condemned to rot for months before being dragged out to reconsider their stories? The mind … gnaws at itself. Certainties become probabilities, become doubts. Whilst doubts become certainties. And nothing is as it was.

  What will become of me? Will I even I recognize me?

  On the seventeenth night strange noises awoke him. It was utterly dark, of course; even darker than during the working day as all torches and lamps had been taken away or extinguished. But he believed that what jerked him awake was a definite crash as of wood smashing. He went to his door and listened at the small metal grate.

  Whispers. Heated whispers. Angry muffled argument. Whatever was going on? He was tempted to shout a question – then, steps outside his door. Two sets: one light, the other heavy and flat-footed. The dim glow of a flame shone through the door’s timbers. He backed away to the not-so-far wall.

  A faint tap on the door. A low growled voice: ‘Hello? Anyone there? Are you the Assessor, Bakune?’

  This did not sound like a midnight execution squad. He made an effort to steady his voice, said: ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friend. You are the Assessor?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered faintly, then, stronger, ‘Yes – I am.’

  ‘Very good. I’m going to get you out.’

  What? Lady’s dread, no! An escape? Escape to where? ‘Wait a moment—’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  ‘I will get him out!’ boomed a new voice.

  ‘Will you shut up!’ hissed the first. ‘You will do no such thing. You’ve already done enough.’

  ‘But this is my specialty,’ the second voice bellowed out again cheerily. ‘I will pick the lock!’

  ‘No! Don’t … stand back, Assessor!’

  Bakune already had his back to the opposite wall. He had to straddle the vile hole that served as the privy to do so. He jumped as the door crashed with a great blow that made his ears ring. Dust and broken slivers dropped from the aged hand-adzed planks. It seemed as if a giant’s fist had struck it.

  ‘Would you stop doing that!’ the gravelly voice shouted.

  ‘One last delicate touch!’

  The door jumped inward to reverberate against the wall. A bald head gleaming with sweat peered in – the defendant, the priest. Bakune couldn’t recall his name. Next to him stood a giant. So tall was he that the opening only came up to his shoulders, and so wide Bakune did not think he was capable of entering the cell.

  ‘There!’ the giant announced. ‘The lock is picked!’

  The priest rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘We’re leaving,’ he growled, then glared at the giant. ‘It seems we have no choice!’

  The giant bent his head down to peer in. ‘Using my unparalleled skills in stealth and deception I have effected your escape, good Assessor.’

  Bakune shared an incredulous look with the priest. ‘How very … discreet … it has been, too.’

  Beneath an enormous bushy heap of curly hair bound up on top of his head, the man beamed. The two would-be rescuers appeared to share a Theftian background by their accent and their blunt features. ‘But I am not going.’

  The giant’s gaze narrowed and he peered left and right as if confused. The priest sighed. ‘Yes, I understand. But there’s no choice now … they’ll just kill you out of hand. Or torture you to death. Come, time is short.’

  ‘I can’t—’ Bakune stopped himself. Can’t break the law? Whose law? These Guardians have no legitimacy. He felt his shoulders fall. ‘Yes. Very well.’

  ‘Good. This way.’

  The priest led. The giant, who gave his name as Manask, followed him. Bakune was last. Up the hall they came to a guard station – or the remains of one. The door had been smashed open and guards lay bashed into unconsciousness. Bakune eyed Manask, who gestured proudly to encompass the scene. ‘I snuck up upon them.’

  ‘Yes … I see.’

  ‘They did not suspect a thing!’

  The priest lit an oil lamp then urged them forward. Speaking as quietly as possible, Bakune demanded, ‘And just where are we going?’

  ‘We will flee into the wilds,’ announced Manask. ‘Live off berries and mushrooms. Slay animals with our bare hands and wear their hides.’ Bakune and the priest both wordlessly studied the man, who looked back at them, eager. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve a boat waiting,’ the priest growled.

  Bakune felt infinite relief. ‘Where are we going?’

  The priest rubbed the grey bristles at his jaw and cheeks as if surprised by the question. ‘Going? Don’t know. Maybe we’ll just hide,’ and he shrugged. ‘Now, c’mon. We’ve wasted enough time.’

  Bakune was surprised when the priest led them a different route from the way most prisoners were brought in. As Assessor he’d visited the Carceral Quarters a number of times, but always by the main way. The route the priest took brought them to narrower, winding ha
lls. After a time he realized that they walked the passages of the old fort that the carcery had been built upon. A lifetime of enquiry and assessing prompted him to wonder about this.

  At one point, while they waited for Manask to edge his huge bulk round a particularly tight corner, he murmured to the priest, ‘You know these ways well.’

  The priest’s frog mouth widened even further into a tight smile that suggested he knew exactly what Bakune was up to. ‘I’ve been through here before. Long ago.’

  ‘In similar circumstances, perhaps?’

  But the man just smiled. Gasping, Manask yanked himself free, his armour scraping the walls. ‘Free!’ he announced. ‘Slippery as an eel! Able to wriggle through the tightest of corners!’

  The priest just shook his head; it seemed the pair knew each other well. Old friends. Old conspirators and criminal partners too? It seemed probable. There was something familiar there; something he could not quite recall. This couple must be well known. It also occurred to him that there was something strange about Manask’s armour: it appeared to consist of a great deal of layered padding. And he walked strangely upon his boots, which apparently comprised no more than tall heels and thick soles. While upon closer examination a significant portion of the man’s height was really nothing more than his immensely thick nest of hair.

  After many twists and turns, the halls becoming ever narrower and more neglected, the priest stopped before a door. He whispered: ‘This should lead to the kitchens. From here we can make our way out, then down to the waterfront—’

  Manask lurched forward. ‘I will sneak ahead!’

  Like a moving wall he pushed Bakune ahead of him. ‘Wait! There’s not enough room! Please …’

  The priest threw open the door and the three burst through like peas from a pod to crash into shelves of pots and hanging pans. Bakune bumped a table and stacked bowls came crashing down. ‘Quiet as mice now!’ Manask yelled.

  A man – one of the prison cooks, obviously – bolted up from his cot to gape at them. Manask heaved a long oaken table on to the fellow, sending crockery flying in an explosion of shattering. ‘Let us creep right past this one’s nose!’ The giant charged on, upending tables in his path. ‘I will spy the way!’