Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  Feeling like an utter fool, Ivanr strove to comply. He imagined his ancestors, generation before generation, all serried off into the past like an infinite regression, back as far as possible. And he called to them.

  ‘Sister Esa and Carfin have fled,’ Jool announced.

  ‘Then it’s up to me,’ Sister Gosh answered.

  ‘Good luck.’

  Ivanr opened his eyes, straightened. Jool was backing away, box held high, shaking it like a musical instrument. Sister Gosh threw the pipe away; it streamed an arc of embers as it went. She took a quick nip from a silver flask that disappeared just as swiftly into her shawls. ‘Are you with me?’ she asked Ivanr, her gaze fixed to the north.

  From the dark, a soft crying-like keening started up again.

  ‘What is it?’ Ivanr asked.

  ‘If flesh – our flesh – can be blasphemed … this would be it.’

  He grasped at his belt: he was unarmed. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Stop it from reaching the shrine. Or me. Or Jool.’

  Ivanr raised a brow. ‘Right …’

  Behind, Jool shook the box ever faster until its rattling seemed a continuous hissing. Ivanr had no idea what he was to do. ‘How do I—’

  A shape lumbered out of the dark. Its appearance almost sent Ivanr running. Very large, fully as tall as he, humanoid, yes, but more like a sculpture of flesh: pale fish-white, so obese as to seem poured of fat. And atop the heap of bulging flesh, a tiny baby’s head, hairless, mouth wet with drool, babbling and crying.

  ‘Gods!’ Ivanr cursed, wincing his disgust, his stomach rising to sour his mouth.

  Sister Gosh threw her hands down as if pushing at the ground before the thing. The topsoil beneath it was gouged apart as if by a scythe. The thing rocked backwards, keening and gibbering – in pain or fear, Ivanr could not tell. The naked ground under its feet heaved and roiled like mud. Heat coursed so intensely from the old woman that Ivanr had to step away. The thing pushed ahead once more. A colossal leg sucked free of the dirt to swing forward.

  ‘Damn the gods, she’s strong,’ Sister Gosh snarled through clenched teeth. ‘Do something!’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘All right!’ He edged up to the gash of mud. He noted that the water that fed it was melting from the knob of ancient ice. The monstrosity seemed to be ignoring him as it fought to make headway. Gingerly, he stepped into the mud. It was warm, but not uncomfortably so. He crouched, arms out, and launched himself forward to take the thing at its huge belly. Striking it was like sinking into a vat of blubber. He heaved, legs bent, straining.

  The creature did not even seem to notice him. It continued lumbering ungainly, attempting to advance. One swinging great tree trunk of an arm gave him a fearful blow to the back but he didn’t think it deliberate. All the while the creature kept up a babble that sounded eerily like an infant’s mouthings.

  Another blow cracked against Ivanr’s head, sending him face down into the mud. He rolled aside before the thing could trample him, deliberately or not. Heavy with the clinging dirt, he rose and threw himself on its back. He hooked an elbow beneath its tiny chin and squeezed as tightly as he could. So far the thing’s rolling empty eyes seemed not to have even rested upon him. But now that he had a choking grip, the head turned and wide-open eyes found him. Ivanr believed that he could have held on, could have finished the monstrosity, but at that moment words emerged from within its baby-like babble and a child’s voice begged, ‘Help me.’

  Shocked and horrified, he lost his grip and slid down the thing’s mud-slick back.

  Jool let out a shout then, the rattling of the box deafening. There was an eruption like a thunder blast directly overhead, accompanied by a blinding flash and the sound of multiple impacts thudding into the creature like sling bullets. It tottered, mewling and whimpering, and fell face forward. Ivanr lay in the mud, staring. All the gods forgive them. Had that been a child?

  He tried to sit up and realized that he was sinking. Panic seized him. The mud had his legs and arms in a grip of iron. He almost laughed hysterically as all he could think to shout was, ‘Help me!’

  Sister Gosh called something but he couldn’t make it out as the mud had his ears. He saw her pointing, her mouth moving. ‘Do something!’ was all he managed before the wet choking glop filled his mouth, stopping his breath, and the fire of complete terror burned all conscious thoughts from his mind. His last impression was of something even more crushing taking hold of him like an immense fist round his middle, and squeezing him.

  He awoke on the floor of his tent, a scream of terror echoing in his ears. The flap shot open and two of his guards bolted in, weapons bared. Ivanr peered around, blinking; the guards stared at him. He noted that water ran from them. In fact, the deafening drumming of a downpour hammered the tent’s roof. He stood to push past them and look out: sheets of rain were coursing down like a lake upended.

  He turned to the guards, who were still eyeing him, uncertain. ‘I thought I was drowning.’

  They laughed, sheathed their swords. He let them out then stood for a time at the open flap watching the rain hammer down. Wet and muddy tomorrow. So Martal had her rain as she wished. Yet surely she couldn’t have been counting on it. It was all so uncertain – she must have more than this pulled together. Or so he hoped.

  Tomorrow then. They’d all find out tomorrow. He lay back down to try to get some sleep.

  The downpour lasted all through the night. A cloudburst. As if all the month’s rain had been stopped up only to come blasting out in a single night. It was still falling so heavily in the morning that Ivanr could not make out the distant Jourilan Imperial cavalry. He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and squinted against the sheets of water as he made his rounds. Cold drops ran from his helmet to his neck and he kept his hands tucked inside his belt to warm them. The ground had become sodden and pulled at his sandals as he walked. It seemed to him that Martal had placed her cohorts too deeply, on too narrow a front. What if the lancers wheeled round them? It looked as if there was room to edge past on the right flank where the ground fell off slightly towards a copse. True, the ranks had been trained to fend off in more than one direction, but they were untested, and there could be a panic if the enemy appeared from another quarter. Or the cavalry could ignore the infantry entirely to scour the train where it had been gathered together in a camp on the far side of the trunk road. This time, however, he kept his misgivings to himself and hoped that Martal was holding Hegil Lesour ’an ’al and his remaining cavalry in reserve for just such a danger.

  He walked the lines, trailed by his bodyguard. Men and women in the ranks called to him and it took some time before he understood the shout: ‘Deliverer.’ Deliverer? When had that started? He sensed the cynical hand of Martal behind the word. He scanned the hillside where it dissolved into the grey misted rain. It seemed the deluge had delayed the Imperials. They were no doubt waiting for the worst to pass. Very well. What to do? The truth was he felt completely useless. What would be his role now? Carr had the brigade in hand; lingering there would only undermine the man’s authority. Foreign gods, where even to stand? To the rear with Martal? No, that would only make both of them uncomfortable. He should go where he could do the most good. That meant the lines; his presence might save lives among the troops, harden the unit against breaking.

  He went to find Carr.

  Scarves of fog traced their way across the field and between the cohorts, making the silent men and women seem an army of ghosts. His cloak hung heavy and sodden, though warmed now by his body heat; his feet, however, in soaked swathings and leather sandals, were clotted in mud and chilled numb.

  He found the lieutenant to the rear of the brigade, flanked by messengers. Carr bowed. ‘Ivanr.’

  Ivanr answered the salute. ‘Permission to join the front line, Lieutenant.’

  The man’s brows wrinkled. ‘I thought you took a vow against killing …’

  ‘
True. But I never said anything about horses.’

  The lieutenant seemed to be taken by a coughing fit. ‘Ah! Well, then, by all means …’

  Saluting, Ivanr chose a pike from the weapons standing in reserve and joined the lines. He took a kind of cruel satisfaction seeing the five men and three women of his guard likewise take up pikes to join him. Good! If they really are skilled, then maybe we’ve just strengthened this unit more than our presence disturbs it.

  The heat of the climbing sun thinned the clouds, though they did not disperse entirely. The fog clung to the lowest hollows and coursed over the neighbouring cohorts, leaving only the tops of the pikes pointing up like a forest of markers. The hillsides drifted into view, revealing rank after rank of horsemen, each as still as a statue. The only movement was the occasional shake of a horse’s head, the only noise the faint jingle of harness. Ivanr studied the lines. Lady’s curse, there were a lot of them. More must have arrived in the night. He saw few of the heaviest of the heavies: the mailed Jourilan aristocrat on a fully caparisoned warhorse. The vast majority were Imperial lancers supported by light cavalry.

  Then horns sounded from the hillsides: the Imperial call to readiness. Ivanr wiped the cold mist from his face, raised an arm. ‘Stay firm! They’ll break if you stay firm!’ Another blast of the horns and the front ranks started forward. The low rumbling of the thousands of hooves reached him as a distant shudder in the ground. ‘Crowd up! Brace yourselves!’

  The enemy’s pace quickened, reaching a gallop. Lances came levering down to be tucked firmly under arms. Even Ivanr, who had faced countless opponents over a lifetime of training and combat, felt the almost overwhelming urge to run, to flinch away, to be anywhere but in front of this mountain of horseflesh about to crush him. That these men and women, ex-villagers, farmers, burgher craftsmen and women, should somehow find the determination and courage to stand firm shamed and awed him. All gods, true and false, where do people find such resolve? Where does it come from? Ivanr was the closest he’d yet come to conversion to some idea of divine inspiration.

  Then the landslide struck.

  He’d deliberately aimed low, meaning to take a horse in the chest. But despite their training and the rough spurring of their lancer masters, the mounts could not be forced to wade straight into the solid wall of unmoving humans. They sawed aside at the last instant, or reared. Ivanr’s pike took one low in the shoulder and was almost torn from his grasp as the horse continued on aslant of the formation. Elsewhere, the formation was uneven in places where a horse tumbled into the lines, kicking and thrashing, screaming amid the cohort. But the majority of the charge milled ineffectually at the rear of the first wave, only to edge on round, picking up speed once more, aiming for another unit.

  ‘Form up!’ Ivanr bellowed, panting, his blood thrumming within him. He strained to watch the manoeuvring. Would they take on another cohort? Or would they make for the train? Where were the blasted skirmishers? He realized they couldn’t take charge of the field without breaking formation. There was no way to stop the charges. Where were all those blasted archers Martal was training?

  He watched with tightening dread as a second charge formed up unmolested, the horses nickering and stamping.

  Damn the gods! They could keep this up all day. All they needed was one solid strike. A bit of luck. He and the troopers were safe in their cohorts – but they were also just as effectively trapped.

  *

  From a wooded hillock overlooking the camp of the Army of Reform, Sister Nebras sat next to her smouldering fire and knitted. She pulled her layered shawls tighter, keeping one eye on the gathered camp, the assembled carriages, the corralled horses, staked dray animals, carts and tents. Somewhere within that train the heart of the movement against the Lady, its voice and rallying point for nearly half a century, lay dying.

  And she did what she could to help him hang on.

  The uproar of warfare reached her as animal screams, the commingled roaring of thousands of throats and the rumbling of massed hooves somewhere beyond the misted rain where slanting shafts of sunlight broke through here and there. But all that commotion was no business of hers. She was embroiled in the real battle; the true duel of wills and intent that would guide these lands for the next century. She and her sisters and brothers had committed themselves, finally stepped out into the open to declare their opposition.

  And it was about damned time, too.

  Yet Beneth was dying. He’d directly resisted the Lady for decades. She had no idea how he’d done it. Sister Nebras was a witch, a manipulator of chthonic spirits and the lingering wells of power at ancient shrines, cairns and ritual sites. And she had no illusions regarding her strength. In her youth she’d travelled abroad, sensed the aura of true magi – in Malaz she knew she’d be regarded as no more than a hedge-witch. Yet Beneth delved into none of these sources. He merely set his will against the Lady, whom Sister Nebras regarded not as the goddess she claimed to be, but rather as a sort of force of nature, if not a natural one. How did he do it? His very success unfortunately undermined her own personal thesis that one need not resort to the divine to explain any of this. She knitted with greater fury, the wooden needles a blur.

  It was most irksome.

  A presence nearby, and she tilted her head to peer aside through her thick pewter-grey hair. ‘I see you there, Totsin. No sneaking up on ol’ Nebras.’

  Totsin bowed, a hand at his ragged beard. ‘Sister Nebras.’ He stepped up out of the woods.

  ‘What are you doing here? The Lady’s gaze is near.’

  Totsin nodded gravely. ‘Yes. That’s why I’ve come.’ He sighed, rueful. ‘I’ve come to lend a hand.’

  ‘Ha! There’s a turn to startle everyone! Well, though damned late, you’re welcome. I would be lying if I said I did not need the help. The burden is—’

  Sister Nebras froze, needles poised. Glaring off to the woods she leapt to her feet. ‘By all the— She’s here! She slipped in behind you!’

  Totsin spun, mouth open. ‘I sensed nothing …’

  ‘Idiot! Well, too late now.’ She dropped her knitting to raise her hands. ‘Ready yourself – we must fight.’

  ‘Yes, Sister Nebras. We must fight,’ he answered, his voice pained.

  She glanced aside, unsure at his tone. ‘What … ?’

  Totsin unleashed a blast of force that threw Sister Nebras from her feet to fly crashing into a thick birch trunk that quivered from the blow. She fell in a heap, back broken, staring up at the sky. He stood over her, peering down.

  ‘Any last insults?’ he asked.

  ‘You will die …’ she breathed.

  He shrugged. ‘Undoubtedly – but long after you.’

  She mouthed: ‘… why … ?’

  A shining light was approaching, casting stark shadows of light and dark among the trees. Totsin bowed to the source somewhere out of her vision then returned to her. ‘Why, you ask? Surely that ought to be clear. You and the others pay me no deference. You mock me. Defy my wishes. I have seniority. I am a founding member. I am in charge! I will recruit a new Synod. One where it will be absolutely clear that I am the ranking member and no one will dare challenge me!’

  ‘Totsin …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You couldn’t be in charge of a privy.’ And Sister Nebras laughed, coughing, to heave up a mouthful of blood that drenched her chin and shirt-front.

  Totsin frowned his disgust and turned away. He bowed down on one knee before a floating brightness that held the wavering outline of a robed woman.

  ‘Well done, Totsin Jurth the Third,’ came a woman’s soft voice, filling the clearing. ‘The Synod is yours to mould as you wish. For is that not your right? Your obligation? As founding member and most senior practitioner?’

  ‘I am yours, Most Blessed Lady.’

  ‘And now I must go,’ said the vision, regret tingeing its voice. ‘I am so very late for a much overdue visit. Until later, most loyal servant.’

  To
tsin bowed his head to the ground. When he raised it she was gone and the clearing was dark once more. He straightened his vest, brushed his sleeves, then walked off into the woods already thinking ahead, wondering which minor – very minor – talents he might approach once all this unpleasantness was behind him.

  *

  Ivanr held the broken haft of his pike in one hand while waving back the line. ‘One step back!’ Twice already he’d nearly tripped over the fallen – theirs and the enemy’s. He also limped where a wounded Imperial had stabbed him in the foot. That was the problem with twelve-foot pikes … useless for infighting. Panting, he regripped the broken haft, squinted into the thinning mist. Was it another rush? Disembodied horns sounded a recall across the slope. Somewhere to the east a cohort had shattered and the Imperials had descended like kites on meat to run down the fleeing refugees. Now the cavalry were reforming higher on the hillside, readying for another rush and choosing their targets at will. Damn Martal! Had she placed all the skirmishers with the train? Where were they? He was of half a mind to find her. But of course he wouldn’t: not because of the likelihood of being trampled, but because of what the men and women would think seeing him run off.

  A great mass of lancers, the largest remaining body of them, came thundering down to the west, thinning across their front as they went. Ivanr watched them pass – damn them! Bored with taking runs at us they’re off for the train!

  Troops of about fifty lancers coursed among the cohorts to keep them pinned. They swung about, charging, but mostly sawing off at the last instant to avoid the pikes. At least they too had no archers, Ivanr thought ruefully. The men and women of the cohort peered about, blinking. ‘Keep formation!’ Ivanr bellowed. ‘They’ll be back!’

  He swallowed, parched, glancing down to the south, waiting for the telltale plume of smoke, the screams, the refugees fleeing the wreckage of the train.