Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  When the Adjunct happened to be standing near him, Suth asked, ‘Do we retreat?’

  The young man smiled behind his moustache. ‘Not unless we can take our wagons with us.’

  This close Suth wondered why he had ever considered the officer young. He was no younger than himself, surely, nor a good portion of the entire army. This was a young person’s calling. Probably it was the rank: the fellow was slim in years to be second in command to a High Fist.

  The Adjunct’s gaze narrowed, the cross-hatching of wrinkles all around almost hiding the eyes – a plainsman’s gaze. ‘Trouble,’ he breathed, then, gesturing, ‘Goss, Twofoot, to me.’

  Suth strained to look: men in dark robes advancing. Pressure eased along the twelve-foot width as the Roolian soldiers backed off. Four more priests of the Lady, just as at the temple in Aamil. He remembered his throat constricting then, his stolen breath. Would that happen again? And would the Adjunct be able to counter it as before?

  The four stamped their iron-shod staves to the timbers and stood waiting. Flanked by his sergeants the Adjunct stepped out to meet them.

  ‘I am Abbot Nerra,’ one of the priests announced. He did not wait for the Adjunct to reply; indeed, it was clear that he did not want any response. ‘You are trespassing. Retreat from this valley and you will be unmolested. You have the word of the Lady. Such is her infinite leniency and forbearance.’

  ‘Generous of the Lady to offer territory we already hold,’ the Adjunct answered.

  The Abbot appeared to have expected such an answer. ‘Surrender now or be driven before the Lady’s wrath like ash before the wind.’

  ‘Is this the leniency or the forbearance?’

  The Abbot was untroubled. ‘Her patience is without end. Mine is not.’ He signalled to his fellows.

  At the same instant the sergeants signed as well and from behind the upturned wagons saboteurs jumped up to fire crossbows. Multiple bolts slammed into the priests, some passing through entirely to speed on and strike soldiers behind.

  The four staggered but none fell. The Abbot raised his eyes and something more seemed to glare from their depths that fixed them all with their rage. ‘Blasphemers! Your essences will writhe in agony!’

  Energy detonated between the priests in crackling arcs and filaments. The timbers shuddered as if pounded by a charge of cavalry. Everyone flinched: the Adjunct, the sergeants, even the Roolian troops. The robes of the priests began to smoulder and smoke. A chain of the energy lashed out, striking one wagon in an explosion of shards sending men and women flying. Suth remembered the spear in his hand and took one step to launch it. The leaf-blade disappeared into the torso of a priest while the haft immediately burst to ash. The priest seemed unaffected by what was certainly a mortal wound.

  The four advanced a step, staves held horizontal before them. The wagon Suth hid behind slid backwards, almost knocking him from his feet. He staggered, yelling his pain with every hop of his injured leg. Another chain of energy lashed the lines and soldiers fell, smouldering, charred and withered.

  Then the Adjunct lunged forward, rolling. A priest fell, his leg severed at the knee. Another swung his stave and the Adjunct caught the blow on his sword, two-handed. The stave was severed in a blast that sent the youth spinning to slam into the bridge’s side. The eruption flattened a score of the nearest Roolian soldiers as well. That priest fell, his arms and chest in bloody ruins, his hands gone. The remaining two pushed onward, seemingly uncaring and unaffected. The wagon slammed backwards into Suth once more.

  ‘Drop!’ Urfa called, and she straightened to throw a fist-sized orb. Suth hunched behind the wagon. Normally the crack of the munition would have made him flinch, but now the blast was lost in the maelstrom of wrath unleashed before them. When the woman peered up again she gaped, snarling, ‘Shit!’

  He peered, an arm shielding his eyes, to see the two still advancing despite countless slashing wounds – one’s face a bloom of blood from a mortal head wound. The Adjunct appeared to be unconscious. Suth hobbled over to him, and found Goss examining him. ‘What do we do?’ Suth shouted.

  ‘Don’t know!’

  The pale yellow blade lay on the timbers. Both Suth and Goss eyed it. ‘Should I touch it?’ Suth asked.

  ‘Don’t know!’

  ‘Oh, to the Witches with it!’ Suth picked it up; it was warm in his hand and not quite as heavy as an iron weapon. Nothing seemed to happen to him. The curved blade looked more golden than pale yellow, translucent at its edge. He turned to the remaining priests. They were ignoring them, intent upon forcing everyone back up the bridge. He glanced at Goss, who wore a thoughtful frown.

  ‘Maybe I should …’ the sergeant offered.

  Well, he was wounded. A great yell snapped their attention to the priests. A soldier had leapt from cover swinging a two-handed sword. The trooper wore a long mail coat and a helm whose visor was hammered into the likeness of a snarling beast. Suth recognized her as an officer he often saw with Fist Rillish. Her heavy blade crashed into a blocking stave, triggering an eruption of energy that crackled and lashed all about the bridge. But she hadn’t come with them! What was she doing here?

  A second arcing blow slipped under the stave and slit one priest across the gut almost to the spine. A spin and she brought the weapon swinging up to catch the second at the groin, tearing a gash up to his sternum. Even then neither priest fell. Smoke now plumed from them as if driven by a ferocious wind; it appeared to Suth that they’d been dead for some time. Enraged, her mail blackened and scoured by the energies, the woman kicked one of the priests. He fell corpse-stiff in a clatter of dry limbs.

  The crackling power snapped out of existence; the staves lay consumed to blackened sticks, iron fittings melted. A crowd of troopers from the Fourth washed over them all. They came dragging carts and equipment that they heaved up into a barricade. Suth and Goss helped the groggy Adjunct up.

  Goss offered a wink. ‘Have to be the hero another time, hey?’

  Suth examined the pale blade. ‘I guess it takes more than just a sword.’ He picked up a torn cloak and used it wrap the weapon.

  The sergeant was nodding his serious agreement. ‘Yeah. Looks more like a question of timing to me.’

  The Adjunct was standing on his own now. He rolled one shoulder, wincing and hissing his pain. Suth offered him the sword. He took it and shook his head. ‘Fat lot of good it did me.’

  ‘You’re still alive, sir,’ Goss pointed out.

  The Adjunct nodded thoughtfully, accepting the point. ‘True enough, Sergeant.’

  Goss straightened, offering an abbreviated battlefield salute, and Suth turned to see Fist Rillish approaching. ‘Just in time,’ the Adjunct called.

  Fist Rillish bowed. ‘Let’s hope Greymane is as prompt.’

  The Adjunct was massaging his shoulder. ‘When do you expect him?’

  ‘Tonight – Burn speed him.’

  The Adjunct grunted his acknowledgement. ‘We should be able to hold till then. I leave you to it.’

  Fist Rillish bowed again, turned to Sergeant Goss; he pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he studied the man. ‘Your captain is on the east shore, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Goss took Suth’s arm. ‘On our way.’

  *

  Within the pressing mass of Roolian soldiers Ussü tapped the shoulder of his Moranth escort. He had seen enough. It was now plain to him that this second wave of invasion brought more than mere soldiers. Other powers, it seemed, deemed the timing right to challenge the Lady’s long dominance. Head down, he walked back up the slope, hands clasped behind his back. If it was equally evident to her by now … then he may be able to strike a bargain, of a kind.

  Head down, lost in thought, he failed to note the row raging around Borun’s command position. If he had seen it he would have turned right round; as it was, he walked right into it. ‘You! Mage,’ someone demanded. ‘Talk some sense into your companion.’ Ussü looked up, blinking: a crowd of the Env
oy’s officer and aristocratic entourage surrounded Borun. The Duke had spoken. Kherran, that was his name.

  ‘Yes, my Duke?’ Ussü asked mildly.

  ‘Remind him of his duty!’

  Ussü turned to Borun. ‘Well, Commander? Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘It is now Envoy Enesh’s wish that the bridge be blown.’

  Ussü raised an eyebrow. Rather late for that. ‘I see. And?’

  A shrug. ‘We do not possess sufficient munitions for the task.’

  ‘I see.’ Ussü turned to Duke Kherran. ‘You heard the man. You had your chance. Now it can’t be done.’

  The Duke advanced upon him, his round face darkening with rage. For a moment Ussü thought he would strike. Through clenched teeth he snarled, ‘We note you had sufficient munitions to mine the bridge earlier!’

  ‘That was earlier,’ Borun said, his voice flat. ‘Now, more importantly, what we do not possess is the bridge itself.’

  The Duke was almost beyond words in his frustration. He pointed to the structure. ‘Well … do it here! This end!’

  Borun waved the suggestion aside. ‘Inconsequential. The damage would be no more than that incurred on the far side. It could be repaired in a day. No, our only hope would be to seize the nearest shoreward pier and demolish it.’

  ‘Well? Do it!’

  ‘We do not possess sufficient munitions for the task.’

  The man went for his weapon. He froze in the act, his chest heaving, gulping down air. ‘You two … You are deliberately frustrating our efforts! You wish us to fail! Overlord Yeull will deal with you!’ He gestured to the entourage. ‘Come!’

  ‘I strongly urge that all boats be pressed into a general withdrawal from the east shore,’ Borun called after the Duke.

  ‘Let it be on your head!’

  The Moranth commander watched them march off. ‘We will be blamed no matter what,’ he mused aloud.

  ‘Yes. But not to worry.’

  The matt-dark helm turned to him. Ussü could almost imagine the arched brow. ‘No?’

  ‘No. I have a feeling that we may count on the intervention of a higher authority.’

  The helm cocked sideways in thought. ‘Indeed.’

  Ussü entered the opened front of his tent. He searched among his herbs, touched a hand to his teapot: cold. ‘Hot water!’ he shouted. At the fire a servant youth leapt up to do his bidding. ‘So much for the imponderables, Borun. What of the practicalities? Do we withdraw?’ And Ussü glanced out of the tent. The Moranth commander was facing the river, armoured hands brushing his belt at his hips.

  ‘No.’

  Ussü was quite surprised. ‘Really? We relinquish one bank just to keep the other?’

  The commander entered the tent. He picked up a twist of dried leaves and brought them to his visor, took an experimental sniff. ‘Haste, High Mage. Speed. This quick dash to take the bridge. The forced march across Skolati. All these speak of a strategy for a swift victory. Yes?’

  From a meal set out for him Ussü tore a pinch of cold smoked meat. ‘Granted.’ The dirt, he noted, had been raked clean. Poor Yurgen, Temeth and Seel. Able apprentices, but all without even the slightest talent. What would he do for assistants now? He sighed. Ham-handed soldiers no doubt.

  Borun crossed his arms, leaned against the central table. ‘Then it is my duty to frustrate this strategy, no? I must impede, slow, delay. Disputing the crossing will effect that.’ He began pacing. ‘Oh, he may cross downstream, or upstream, but that would add weeks to his march. Not to his liking, I think.’

  ‘Very well. So we remain.’

  ‘Yes. And thus the question, High Mage … What can you contribute?’

  Ussü popped the meat into his mouth, both brows rising. Ah. Good question. He cleared his throat. ‘I will need new assistants.’

  * * *

  Bakune sat hunched forward on his elbows over his small table next to the kitchen entrance at the back of a crowded tavern. He was dressed in old tattered clothes, his dirty hair hung forward over his face and he kept one hand tight round the shot glass of clear Styggian grain alcohol. He studied that hand, the blackened broken nails. When was the last time he had been so dirty? If ever at all? Perhaps once, as a child, running pell-mell through these very waterfront streets.

  That night of the escape the Theftian priest might have had a boat waiting but neither he nor Bakune had anticipated the harbour’s being closed. No vessels allowed in or out. The gates of the city had been sealed as well. They might have escaped their cells, but they effectively remained imprisoned within Banith. Bakune was under no illusions; he was certainly not important enough to warrant these precautions, nor did he think the priest so. No, the posted notices revealed that these prohibitions against travel had been levelled more than ten days ago.

  The giant Manask, about whom Bakune had his doubts – after all, the man’s features betrayed none of the telltale markers of Elder blood, such as pronounced jaw, jutting brow, or deep-set eyes – had then bent down for a whispered conference with the priest. It was yet some time to dawn and the three occupied a narrow trash-choked alley close to the waterfront. While Bakune kept watch, the whispering behind him escalated into a full-blown shouting match with the two almost coming to blows. Only his intervention brought silence. The priest glowered, face flushed, while the cheerfulness the giant usually displayed was now clouded, almost occluded.

  Manask had turned to him, set a hand on his shoulder, and winked broadly. ‘You will wait here a time, then Ip— the priest will lead you to our agreed hiding hole. I myself must travel ahead by stealth and secrecy to make arrangements for our disappearance. Do not fear! These clod-footed Guardians will not track us down. For am I not the most amazing thief in all these lands? Come now, admit it, have you never seen anything like me?’

  ‘No, Manask. I admit that I have never seen anything like you.’

  The giant cuffed the priest. ‘There. You see?’ The priest just rolled his eyes. ‘And now … I must away into the gloom …’ and the giant backed down the alley, hunched low. ‘Disappear like smoke … like the very mist …’ He waved his hands before his face as if he were a conjuror, hopped round a corner. ‘There! And I am gone! Ha!’

  ‘Like a fart in the wind,’ the priest growled.

  Bakune never did find out just what the giant’s ‘arrangements’ constituted. The priest had merely slid down one dirty wall and sat for a time, arms hung over his knees. Then, after a while, he had stood, sighing, and motioned for the Assessor to follow. They walked the back alleys. It struck Bakune that the city was astonishingly quiet, the streets empty; there must be a curfew in place. Eventually the priest stopped at one slop-stained door. The alley was appallingly filthy here, littered with rotting food and stinking of urine. Cats scattered at their intrusion. The door scraped open and an old woman eyed them as if they themselves were no better than the rubbish they stood among. She pulled the door open a crack more and beckoned them in with a desultory wave.

  It was the kitchen of some sort of public house. The old cook kicked a bundle of rags in a corner and a child sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and blinked at them. The woman picked up a butcher’s knife and motioned curtly. The girl nodded, and urged them to follow her. Behind them the heavy blade slammed into the chopping block.

  Bakune had since learned the girl’s name was Soon. Her plight pulled at his heart. To see her cuffed and kicked, forced to perform the dirtiest, most degrading tasks in the tavern, made him wince. True, she was half-blood, of the old indigenous tribes, but still it grated. The child was forced to do this work simply because she was small and weak and could not defend herself. It had never before occurred to him to be bothered by such a pedestrian truth. Such was the normal way of the world: the powerful got their way – it was their prerogative.

  Perhaps seeing this principle demonstrated by a fist applied vigorously to the head of a child put a different perspective on it. A perspective that had not been available from his se
at of office, or any courtroom.

  He spent his days here in the tavern, named the Sailor’s Roost, retreating at night to the room he shared with the priest and attempting to sleep through the shouts, the drunken brawls, and the shrieks of real pain and faked pleasure. As for the priest, the man hadn’t left the room since they first entered it. Of Manask he had seen no sign.

  Of course, if they wanted to sneak away, they could. The gates might be officially closed, vessels prohibited from sailing, the streets patrolled by the Guardians of the Faith, but the human urge to profit cannot so easily be suppressed. Already this night Bakune had overheard several arrangements for illegal shipments and deals to smuggle individuals in and out of the city. This tavern seemed a regular hotbed of black-market activities. He wondered why no cases involving it had ever come before him.

  Early on the priest had made it clear he had no intention of leaving. He would stay for reasons of his own that he would not discuss. He also told Bakune that he and Manask would do whatever they could to help him escape.

  Immediately his Assessor’s mind was suspicious of such generosity. ‘And why would you do so?’ he had asked.

  Sitting on his mattress of straw the priest had smiled his wide froglike grin. ‘And why did you refuse to sign my death certificate? Who was I to you? A stranger. Nothing. Yet you helped me.’

  ‘I was merely following the dictates of my calling. It would not have been just.’

  The smile was swallowed by a sour glower. ‘Just,’ he grunted. ‘You are a man of principle and no hypocrite, and you have my respect … but it seems to me that your notion, and practice, of justice has been rather narrow and blinkered.’

  Bakune had no idea what the man meant. His brows crimped and he was silent for some time. Narrow? Had he not known – and enforced – the laws of the land all his life?