Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  Rillish bowed. ‘Yes, High Fist.’ He nodded to Kyle and Devaleth, pushed aside the flap. Greymane watched him go, his mouth sour.

  Kyle stood. ‘Greymane …’

  But the High Fist threw himself into a chair, his chin sinking to his chest, arms hanging loose at his sides. ‘Not now, Kyle.’

  Devaleth edged her head to the flap; Kyle nodded reluctantly. ‘Goodnight,’ he offered.

  Greymane did not answer.

  They walked side by side in silence for a time and then Devaleth cleared her throat. ‘You have seen him like this before?’ she asked.

  Kyle’s first reaction was to deny it, but he paused, acknowledging it. ‘Yes. He can be very … emotional.’

  Devaleth nodded her agreement. ‘I believe your friend is very frightened.’

  ‘Frightened? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean just what I said, frightened. Kyle, you were not here for the first invasion. I was in training in Mare. I heard first-hand accounts. I’ve read histories of the campaign. Kyle, I think he sees it all happening to him again. That first time they were held up in Rool. Delay followed delay. Eventually, they never made it out. I think he fears it will be the same this time, like some sort of awful recurring nightmare.’

  The young plainsman turned away. To the west the Ancy flowed like a dark banner beneath overcast skies. Camp fires dotted the valley across the river. Devaleth knew that they had food and supplies. Here, the troopers hoped for snow so that they could eat it.

  ‘But it won’t happen again,’ he said, certain. ‘This time it’s different.’

  ‘Yes. We may not even make it to Rool.’

  He spun to her. ‘No. I don’t accept that. The army facing us is fragile, pressed to its limit. I can sense it.’

  She crossed her arms. Her tangled hair blew in the frigid wind and she pushed it aside. ‘So are we.’

  ‘So what are you saying, woman? Come, out with it.’ His tone almost said the word traitor.

  She held her face flat. ‘It is early yet. And speaking of fragility, is it not fragile to fall apart at the first sign of resilience in the enemy?’

  She arched one brow and turned away.

  Kyle did not answer, but looking back, Devaleth saw him still standing there, peering out over the river, presumably reflecting on her words. She was fairly confident she’d made her point, and that this young man would make the same point to his friend.

  * * *

  The Army of Reform now straggled like an immense snake over the southern Jourilan plains. Ivanr no longer marched with his brigade; Lieutenant Carr had that in hand. The overcast winter skies continued to threaten rain that rarely came. Jourilan cavalry utterly surrounded them, harrying and probing, though not yet massed for a sustained charge. Ivanr didn’t think it would be long before that day came.

  In all his searching he still hadn’t found the nameless lad he had rescued. What he did find was that he was accreting a bodyguard. Slowly, day by day, more and more fighters, men and women, surrounded him in the lines or marched nearby. It annoyed him that ranks of guards should stand between him and the regular troopers, but nothing he said would deter these self-selected bodyguards. They wore plain armour and for weapons favoured either the sword or a spear haft set with a long curved single-edged blade named, simply enough, a sword-spear. Most, Ivanr noted, were sworn to the cult of Dessembrae.

  They even claimed to have frustrated two assassination attempts. ‘Frustrated?’ he’d demanded, disbelieving. ‘How?’ Their stubborn gazes sliding aside to one another told him his answer. ‘No more killing!’ he ordered and they bowed.

  This morning, just after the long train had roused itself enough to begin moving, a few of their remaining mounted scouts came galloping from the far advance. Something ahead. Ivanr scanned the horizon; hardly any Imperial cavalry in sight. Not good. If they were not here, they were all somewhere else.

  Later, during the march, word came via that soldiers’ gossip-train of word of mouth that the Jourilan cavalry had been spotted ahead. They were pulling together to the west of the army’s line of march. If the cavalry were finally forming up, then it seemed to Ivanr that Martal would have to respond – though just how she could respond still remained a mystery to him. This was the crux where most of the past uprisings and peasant rebellions had been smashed: the impact of horseflesh and the trampling and lancing of panicked civilians.

  The march continued as usual that day, however, until late afternoon, when the order came to make camp. All through the evening, bivouacking, hovering around fires, the men and women of the Army of Reform could not help gazing to the distant hillside where the bright pennants of the Imperial cavalry flew in the wind; where tall tents of white linen glowed warm and bright from within, and the occasional nicker of a horse reached them through the night.

  This façade of normality as if nothing had changed, the calm ordering of the camp, all of it infuriated Ivanr. Meeting the cavalry in open battle was exactly what the Imperials wanted; that was their game. Martal should not play it. Yet try as he might, he could not see any alternative to the failed old tactics of forming up obligingly to meet the enemy. It never worked for any of the past uprisings and peasant movements, and he could not imagine it working now.

  He could not help snorting and chuffing his frustration. He would eye the distant encampment then turn away to prowl before his tent, rubbing his jaw, thinking, the eyes of his bodyguards following him, until finally he could stand it no more and he stalked off to talk to Beneth.

  He found the old man ensconced in his tent as he always was, heaped in blankets next to a travelling hearth, his eyes covered. Even as he entered Beneth spoke. ‘Greetings, Ivanr.’

  Ivanr froze. ‘How did you—’ The man was blind!

  Beneth gave his wry smile. ‘Who else could shake the camp with his fury?’

  ‘I have good reason, Beneth. What is the plan—’

  ‘Of course you believe yourself fully justified,’ Beneth cut in. ‘Doesn’t certitude stand behind both sides in almost all confrontations?’

  ‘The situation doesn’t call for philosophy, old man.’

  ‘No? Then just what does it call for?’

  Ivanr thrust a hand out to the north. ‘Withdrawal! We should keep moving as we have been. Cooperating like this only plays into their hands. And you’ll have dragged all these people to their deaths.’

  The tent flap was thrown aside and Martal came in. She wore her dark travel-stained leathers. Her hair was unkempt and sweaty from her helm. She regarded Ivanr thinly. ‘Your lack of faith is troubling, Grand Champion.’

  Again, he could not read the woman’s guarded angular face: was she serious? Or mocking? More than ever he was certain she was from foreign lands. ‘Faith? Faith in what? It’s faith that has brought us all these troubles.’

  ‘In that at least we are agreed.’ She crossed to a table, pulled off her gloves and began washing her hands in a basin.

  ‘Ivanr is worried about the morrow,’ Beneth offered.

  ‘I do not have the time to reassure every jumpy trooper,’ she said into the basin, and splashed her face.

  Reassure! Ivanr gaped, absolutely furious. How dare she! ‘I demand—’

  She turned on him. ‘You are in no position to demand anything! And your little show of pique has only unnerved everyone further. I am not used to being questioned by my subordinates, Brigade Commander. I suggest that if everyone does their job tomorrow we will have a good chance of victory. More than that, no responsible commander can promise her people.’

  ‘I can hardly do my job if I do not even know what it is.’

  The woman was drying her hands on a cloth. ‘Ivanr … you have been a champion, not a soldier. Whereas I have been a soldier all my life. Your job is now that of the soldier – to follow orders. The simplest, and the hardest, of jobs. If there is secrecy regarding plans and tactics, remember that our camp is rotten with spies. We dare not reveal anything yet.’

  A
long exhaled breath took much of Ivanr’s tension with it; he found himself agreeing with this demanding woman. Secrecy for secrecy’s sake he scorned. Spies he could understand. So, the best she was willing to offer at this time was the indirect promise that something was in the works. Very well. He inclined his head in assent. ‘I’m only worried for the safety of my people.’

  ‘I know, Ivanr. Otherwise I would not even be talking to you.’

  He snorted at that. ‘Well. Thank you for your condescension.’

  Her smile was utterly cold. ‘Of course.’

  He bowed to Beneth. ‘Tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Good luck, Ivanr.’

  ‘My thanks.’

  After the tent flap fell the two within were silent for a time. Beneth inhaled to speak, but Martal forestalled him. ‘I know!’

  ‘You are too harsh.’

  ‘If he wilts then he is hardly worthy, is he?’

  ‘She chose him.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t,’ she muttered, taking a mouthful of bread.

  The old man’s expression softened. ‘You’ve been spoiled, Martal.’

  The woman was nodding her agreement as she sat among the piled blankets, sighing her exhaustion. ‘There was only ever one champion worthy of the name.’

  ‘You must let all that go. This one is no longer a champion, nor will he be required to serve as one again.’

  ‘Then why is he here?’

  The old man was silent for a time in the dark. He brought a wavering hand up to touch the cloth across his eyes. ‘I am tiring, Martal … the pressure she is bringing to bear upon us is almost unsupportable. She knows what might be coming and she is desperate—’

  The woman sprang to her feet. ‘No! No more such talk.’

  ‘Martal …’

  ‘No.’ She snatched up her gloves and a goatskin of water. ‘You are why we are here.’ She stormed out, leaving the old man alone in the gloom. He winced, pressing his fingertips into his brow.

  ‘I’m sorry, child. It has all come so late. So damned late.’

  *

  Ivanr sat on a collapsible camp stool, glowering into the fire. He couldn’t sleep. All that had been said, that could have been said, that wasn’t said, tramped in maddening circles in his mind. Was he a good commander? He thought he was. He believed he had the best interests of his people at heart. What more could be asked? But was he a commander of this army? What had been his own opinion not so long ago? That an army was like a snake – it shouldn’t have two heads. Had he been agitating to become that extra head? Surely not! He hadn’t asked the Priestess to name him her successor! Was it his fault then that many looked to him? No, of course not.

  Was Martal threatened? Did she see him as a rival? No. That was not worthy. She’d given him the brigade for the sake of all these opportunistic gods! No, that was not it. It was him. He’d expected the treatment he’d been given as a Grand Champion, but here he was merely a new face. That was it.

  He lowered his head and clenched it in his hands. Damn the Lady! He’d behaved like some sort of aristocrat demanding privileges! He groaned. Foreign gods! Just the sort of behaviour that made him sick.

  ‘Ivanr,’ a woman said nearby. ‘Ivanr?’

  Head squeezed in both hands he croaked, ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘Poor Grand Champion! Having a pout, are we?’

  ‘Who the—’ Ivanr peered up to see ragged shapeless skirts rising to the wide midriff and layered shawls of the old woman, Sister Gosh. She held a long-stemmed clay pipe in her blackened teeth, and her hair was a wild mess of grey curls. He lowered his head. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Need your help. Gotta run an errand.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘No. Has to be you. In the blood, you could say.’

  He straightened, frowning. All about the camp fire his self-appointed guards lay asleep. He eyed the woman narrowly. ‘What’s going on?’

  She drew a slim wooden box from her shawl, shook it. Something rattled within. ‘Martal wants rain. We’re gonna get her some.’ She shook the box again. ‘Skystones to bring it.’

  He snorted. ‘You don’t believe those old stories and superstitions. Stones from the sky!’

  The woman’s lips drew down, sour. She sucked heavily on the pipe, exhaling twin plumes from her nose. ‘’Struth! Like to like.

  Once touching, always so. These are the old truths. Long before anything. Houses or such.’

  ‘What do you need me for?’

  ‘They’ll recognize you.’

  ‘Who—’

  A tall shape emerged from the gloom: a pale fellow in ragged black clothes, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Time, Sister,’ he called.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ She urged Ivanr up. ‘Come.’

  Still he did not rise. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘A compatriot.’

  ‘What have you done to my guards?’

  Sister Gosh waved a hand impatiently. ‘Nothing. They sleep. If they awoke they would see you gone. Now come.’

  He stood, peered around at the darkness. ‘Gone? Where?’

  She headed off. ‘The land here sleeps, Ivanr. We have entered its memories. Come.’

  He followed, if only to ask more questions. ‘Memories? The past?’

  She took the pipe from her mouth, spat. ‘Not the true past, the real past. Only a memory of it. See ahead?’ She pointed the pipe.

  It was a shallow bowl in the countryside far to the east of the encampment. There, two figures awaited them, another man and a woman. The woman was petite, perhaps even older than Sister Gosh, her face as dark as ironwood, hair pulled back in a tight bun; the man was a short skinny fellow, his hair and beard a tangled mess. The man was digging at something. He called, ‘Here! Hurry!’

  It was some sort of smooth domed stone. As the fellow wiped it clean Ivanr realized it was a fisted knot of dirty ice. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Look behind you,’ the other woman invited.

  He turned, saw a distant wall of ice white and emerald blue. Horizon to horizon it stretched, shot by refractions of light. ‘What is it?’ he breathed, awed.

  ‘Do you not recognize the Great Ice Barrier?’ Sister Gosh asked, having come to his side. ‘Or the Barrier as it was, ages ago?’

  ‘Time!’ the tall one insisted again.

  ‘Yes, Carfin.’ Sister Gosh indicated the other woman: ‘Sister Esa.’ The bearded man: ‘Brother Jool.’

  With an effort, Ivanr kept his gaze from the distant icefield. So it’s true. The Barrier once covered all these lands.

  ‘The stones?’ Jool asked. Sister Gosh raised the box and it seemed to fly to him on its own. It struck his hand with a loud slap.

  ‘What is this?’ a new voice called and everyone turned, then relaxed. Another older man emerged from the gloom, bearded, in tattered finery. ‘The Synod has not convened! This has not been agreed!’

  ‘We agreed to act, Totsin,’ Sister Esa snapped.

  The newcomer drew himself up straight. ‘Ritual magic? Consorting with Elders? This exceeds all Synod procedural conventions.’

  ‘What conventions?’ Jool asked, frowning.

  ‘Time is wasting!’ Carfin called out, rising panic in his voice.

  Totsin opened his hands. ‘Well … obviously it’s understood that anything extreme would endanger us all …’

  ‘We’re pretty much all here,’ Sister Gosh observed tartly.

  ‘This will draw her!’ Totsin hissed.

  ‘That tends to happen when you actually do something.’

  ‘I want no part of it.’

  Sister Gosh peered round at everyone. ‘Ah – we didn’t invite you.’

  Totsin took hold of his chin. His brows rose high in shocked surprise. ‘I see. Well … I’ll go then.’

  ‘Yes. Go then.’

  Bowing, the man turned and walked off to disappear into the night as if stepping behind shadows.

  ‘I sense her attention!’ Brother Carfin called. ‘Prepare him!’


  ‘This place is of your kind, Ivanr,’ Sister Gosh said, facing him. ‘Toblakai is one name. Your ancestors came here to make propitiations, offerings. Like to like. Power to power. It is the old way.’ She drew a wicked-looking thin curved blade from within her shawls. ‘Give me your hand.’

  He resisted the urge to hide his hands behind his back. ‘For what?’

  ‘A small cut. Then you rub that hand over the ice. We will do the rest.’

  ‘That is it?’ he asked, dubious.

  ‘Yes.’

  He held out his left hand. She slit his palm in a swift – rather practised – flick. ‘On the ice, now!’

  ‘She comes,’ Carfin intoned, his voice catching.

  Ivanr knelt and ran his hand over the knotted lump. At first it was cold under his palm but quickly it warmed. He was shaken to see no trace of blood left behind. Something shook the ground to the north and Sister Gosh growled in her throat like a beast. He glanced over but saw nothing in the dark.

  ‘She should not have found us so easily,’ Jool said.

  ‘The tiles,’ Sister Gosh barked to him, then, ‘Carfin, Esa. Do something.’

  Something halfway between a sob and a groan escaped the tall fellow, Carfin, as he walked stiffly off. ‘Madness!’ he said to the night, his voice choking. ‘Madness.’ It seemed to Ivanr that wisps of utter darkness now spun about the man like fluttering scarves. Sister Esa knelt to gather handfuls of mud, then followed.

  Jool pressed a thin wooden tile to the ice, which hissed, steaming.

  ‘Now call your gods,’ Sister Gosh told Ivanr.

  He peered up at her, frowning. ‘What?’

  ‘Call them. Hurry!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How?’ She gaped at him, almost dropping her pipe. ‘What do you mean, how?’

  ‘I’ve never … that is … our old gods and ways are gone. Listen – you never said anything about praying or anything like that!’

  She and Jool shared a strained look. In the dark, something shook the ground again and a high-pitched keening started up. ‘Cowled one help us now,’ she muttered. ‘Look. In your mind call to your ancestors. All the way back – as far as you can reach. Do it!’