Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  Nodding, the priest forced a path through the press to a side alley. Once within he turned to Bakune and invited him to lead. Bakune caught Hyuke’s eye. ‘The gardens.’

  ‘That low wall?’

  Bakune nodded.

  Hyuke heaved Puller forward by his soft leather hauberk. ‘Let’s go.’

  Bakune and the priest hurried side by side behind. ‘Where are we headed?’ the priest asked.

  ‘There’s a large garden within the grounds. Parts of it touch upon an exterior wall. We’ll try there. And your friend,’ Bakune added. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s with us.’

  ‘Really? On a night like this? Any building would be open to him. Gem merchants, goldsmiths.’

  ‘He’s convinced the Cloister sits on a mountain of riches. Nothing will keep him from it.’

  Bakune could not resist asking the question that had been on his mind since first encountering the astonishing fellow: ‘So – he really is a thief?’

  The priest eyed him, one brow raised. ‘He takes money from others. Does that make him a thief? So too then are most advocates and bankers.’

  Bakune did not think that explanation entirely convincing but he said nothing. Personally, he thought the fellow would come away empty-handed from any search of the Cloister. Still, all those contributions from so many thousands of pilgrims and devout over all these generations … but no, the operating costs of such a huge establishment no doubt consumed all of it.

  Once they reached the length of street where one wall ran alongside the Cloister gardens it became clear that Bakune was not the only resident to think of this alternative route. Makeshift ladders leaned against the brick wall; abandoned possessions cluttered the street. The foreign pilgrims might come bashing against the main gates, but the Banith residents had headed for the back entrance. Hyuke took hold of a ladder and shook it to test its solidity.

  ‘Don’t go in,’ a hoarse voice warned from nearby.

  Everyone turned; an old woman sat in the shadow of the wall.

  ‘Why not?’ Hyuke asked.

  The woman pointed up. ‘No one’s come back. I’ve called and called. And there were screams. Terrible, they were.’

  ‘There’s panic all over,’ Hyuke said dismissively.

  ‘Where is everyone, mother?’ Bakune asked.

  ‘Run off. Fled when the screaming started.’

  Bakune caught the priest nodding. ‘Stay here, mother,’ the man said gently. ‘Warn everyone away.’

  Then a great voice boomed from an alleyway: ‘Touch nothing! It may be a trap!’

  The priest flinched as if he’d been stabbed and he cursed beneath his breath. Manask came lumbering from the darkness. The two ex-Watchmen smacked their truncheons in their palms, jaws clenched.

  ‘Silence now, everyone!’ he shouted. ‘This is my particular specialty. I will climb the wall!’ The huge man took hold of the ladder, and with much grunting and fumbling dragged himself up its length. The wooden poles bent like bows under his weight. From beneath, Bakune saw that the man’s boots were thick platforms, perhaps solid wood or iron. No wonder he could kick down doors! They must weigh as much as mattocks.

  Gasping and grunting, the man levered himself up on top of the wall and sat panting. In this awkward position his thick padded armour puffed up around him like a globe. ‘Ha ha! I have ascended the wall! From here I will secretly scout ahead!’

  ‘No!’ the priest hissed. ‘Wait, damn you!’

  But Manask had swung his feet over and dropped from view. A great thump sounded from the far side. Followed, shortly, by a bellowed: ‘Hello? Anyone there? Hello?’

  Puller was scratching his head. Hyuke thrust his truncheon through its loop on his belt. ‘Well I’m not usin’ that ladder – the guy wrecked it.’

  They selected another and the four of them climbed over. Hyuke went first, and Puller last. The gardens were extremely dark and quiet considering the tumult churning the night just beyond its walls. Only Manask’s hollered hellos broke the relative silence. Bakune led the way to the Cloister.

  It was here on the path that he came across the first body. He tripped over it and fell into a low evergreen shrub. Hyuke helped him up. The priest examined the body. It was a middle-aged man, a citizen. ‘No wound,’ he said.

  ‘So what happened?’ Hyuke asked.

  ‘His life was taken from him.’

  ‘Taken? How? By who?’

  The priest did not answer. He gestured ahead to the dark shadow of the large building ahead. ‘The Cloister?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bakune said.

  The priest started ahead. ‘Only I should enter.’

  Bakune followed. ‘What? After all this? I have to see the Abbot.’

  The priest glanced back, his gaze sympathetic. ‘He may not see you,’ he growled, enigmatic.

  Bodies now lay thick upon the gravel paths and across the manicured beds of flowers. They lay where they’d fallen, undisturbed, as if asleep. Across the grounds pounding could be heard from the direction of the main gate. The tall iron-studded doors of the Cloister itself hung agape. A few low lamps glowed within. The priest turned to the ex-Watchmen. ‘Guard the doors. Don’t let anyone in.’

  Puller was yanking on his lower lip; Hyuke’s doubtful gaze slid to Bakune. The Assessor nodded. They shrugged. Puller leaned against one door. The priest headed in, Bakune following. ‘And Manask?’ he whispered.

  The priest took hold of Bakune’s sleeve and the Assessor was astonished by the man’s strength as he easily yanked him back. ‘Never mind him. You shouldn’t come.’

  ‘I have to. The answer to a mystery is here. I must have it.’

  ‘It’s no mystery,’ the priest growled. ‘You already know the answer. You just refuse to see it.’

  A great acid bite was taken from his stomach then and Bakune grimaced, clenching his jaws against it. The priest steadied him. ‘You look pale, Assessor. Are you well?’

  Bakune nodded, curtly, gestured the priest on. ‘I have to know,’ he gasped through his teeth. ‘Please.’

  Obviously against his better judgement the priest relented. He released Bakune. ‘If you must. Stay behind me.’

  Together they walked the halls and rooms of the Cloister. The priest’s path seemed to be taking him unerringly towards the inner chapel of Our Blessed Lady. Early on they came to more bodies. ‘These are all priests and acolytes of the Lady!’ Bakune exclaimed, shocked.

  The corpses lay like twisted dolls amid dropped boxes and chests, bundled clothes and even silver icons all tumbled together. ‘Looks like they were packing,’ the priest observed drily. Bakune winced, seeing blood pooled and caked around mouths, nostrils, glazed eyes, and even ears. He swallowed, tasting iron in his own throat.

  As they neared the inner chapel, the corpses lay even more thickly. Heaped, even. Picking his way between them Bakune imagined he was seeing most of the hierarchy of the entire abbey. ‘Who could have done this?’ he whispered, awed. Again the priest did not answer.

  They came to the chapel doors, which stood slightly open. The priest pulled one leaf aside, revealing a scene of devastation. Heavy stone pews lay scattered like toys. Dark stains marked swaths across the gleaming polished granite floor. Mangled bodies lay pushed up against walls as if flattened by the blows of a giant. The stink of blood and voided body fluids drove Bakune to cover his nose and mouth with a sleeve. After a few moments, the priest entered. His sandals slapped noisily on the tacky smeared stone floor. Bakune followed even though he did not wish to – he feared being separated from the priest even more.

  Ahead, sitting on the white marble altar stone beneath a broad shimmering starburst tapestry of gold and silver thread, waited a tiny figure. A child. A young girl with long black hair wearing a plain orphan’s smock.

  She smiled, brightening, and slid off the altar. ‘Ipshank!’ she piped, delighted. ‘You’ve come!’

  The priest gave a slight bow. ‘M’lady.’

  Bakune stared at the
man. Ipshank? Where had he heard that name before? Of course! Renegade! One of the highest of the Lady’s hierarchy to throw off her worship. That was during the first invasion. The animal tattooing … turned to one of the foreign gods then. Now I begin to understand.

  Ipshank inclined his head to indicate the tossed bodies crumpled amid the broken stonework. ‘Still as impatient as ever, I see.’

  The child stamped her foot and the entire edifice shuddered around them. Dust came sifting from the hidden ceiling and enormous blocks of stone grated and shifted. Candelabra hung on long chains from the darkness above swung overhead, moaning. ‘They would flee! Flee!’ Bakune clamped his hands to his ears in agony. He fell to his knees. Warmth made him pull his hands away – blood smeared his palms. A pink mist swam before his vision.

  ‘And this one?’ the child’s voice asked.

  ‘He had to see with his own eyes what no one could convince him of.’

  ‘Well, he has seen enough.’ A blow like the slap of a battering ram batted Bakune aside. He struck a fallen stone pew, heard bones crack. The agony blackened his vision for a time. But he fought to retain his consciousness: he had to see! Had to witness!

  ‘You have reconsidered my offer?’ the child was saying.

  ‘You know the answer to that,’ came the man’s coarse gravelly voice.

  ‘A pity. Now you are bereft. You betray me, and then that god you clove to … the one your grunting ancestors squirmed before … the beast … you rejected him as well! Such an honour he offered you! Destriant! Arch-priest! And now he is cast down. Who could possibly be next for you? Truly, I am curious. Who will you run to next?’

  ‘None. I’ve made up my own.’

  A very un-girlish laugh echoed through the chapel. ‘Your own? You cannot do that!’

  ‘I have done so. And I have sent it out into the world to make its own way.’

  ‘Enough foolishness, Ipshank. I renew my offer. Be my Destriant. The power you will wield will be unlimited. Join me! I have found my High Mage. And my Mortal Sword – or should I say Spear? He awaits my enemies on the Stormwall. Together we will sweep these invaders from our shores.’

  ‘I am sorry, m’lady, but it is too late for that. They are here now. Banith is defenceless. You must withdraw.’

  ‘Withdraw? Leave? This is mine!’

  The building shook beneath another blow. The floor bounced, shifting the strewn wreckage, and glass shattered all along the walls. A candelabrum fell to explode in shards. Something wet struck Bakune and he turned his head, blinking and squinting. It was an arm. The arm led to the robed body of the Abbot Starvann Arl. The priest had been right: he would not see Bakune. For no legs emerged from beneath those wet stained robes, and upon his bearded face, frozen surprise. Stunned astonishment. You thought you could control her, didn’t you? And perhaps, over time, you came to think you were in charge. You came to think that she truly was just a child. You poor deluded fool.

  ‘No? You will not go? Very well.’ Sandals slapped the wet sticky floor. Gentle arms lifted Bakune. ‘Stay then, if you must. Those inhuman Moranth are coming. I leave you to them. Best of luck … I hear they have no blood within their armour.’

  ‘No! How dare you! I order you to stop!’

  Bakune watched the chapel swing around him as he was carried to the doors. ‘Goodbye. I can’t imagine what they’ll do to you.’

  ‘Come back!’ the child shrieked. ‘I demand that you return! Do not leave me!’

  Past the doors, they were halfway down the hall when a great scream tore the air around them. The almost inhuman noise was like a spike penetrating Bakune’s skull and he yelled his agony, bashing the heels of his hands to his forehead as if he could force the needle points from behind his eyes. The priest, Ipshank, paused, shaking his head to clear it, then set Bakune down. ‘Wait here.’

  Bakune could not even speak to answer. He lay propped up against the wall, panting in agony.

  Shortly, Ipshank returned; he carried the young girl slack in his arms.

  ‘Is she … dead?’ Bakune mumbled, and he spat out a mouthful of blood.

  Ipshank shook a negative. ‘No. Unconscious. She will awaken remembering nothing.’ He extended an arm and pulled Bakune upright. The Assessor clutched hold of the man’s shoulder to take one limping step. ‘So … who is she?’

  ‘Just a vessel. A body used and cast aside. An avatar, some might say.’

  ‘Then … what of the Lady?’

  They were approaching the entrance hall and the priest was peering ahead, frowning in puzzlement. ‘She is elsewhere, as I said.’

  Bakune squinted as well: the outer doors were closed and barred. With Hyuke and Puller was Manask. But Bakune frowned, for it looked as if both ex-Watchmen were struggling to stab the giant with a spear. Then the scene reversed itself in Bakune’s rattled mind and it became clear that both men were struggling to yank out a spear stuck in the huge man’s chest. Hyuke had one foot up against Manask’s stomach and was heaving while Puller was jerking the haft up and down. Manask himself had his back to a wall, both fists on the haft, his face crimson with effort.

  ‘Ah ha!’ he called, noticing them. ‘The holy man comes descending from the mount! What wisdom for us mere mortals?’

  ‘Find anything, Manask?’

  The giant’s eyes flicked left and right. ‘Why … no. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a thing. No sacks of pretty gems set aside in secret hordes. No jewel-encrusted gold icons. Odd that, a cloister without icons! No stone chest of gold coins so large I could not move it hidden in the foundations. A shame that. In short, I come away empty-handed.’ And he let go the spear.

  ‘And this?’ Ipshank flicked the end of the spear haft.

  ‘A mere token of affection from the thousands of devout surrounding us.’

  Ipshank’s brows rose. ‘Ah. I see.’

  Hyuke peered at the girl. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘A survivor,’ Bakune quickly said. ‘Everyone else is dead.’

  Ipshank eyed him for a moment, saying nothing. He looked to Hyuke. ‘Find me somewhere she can sleep.’

  ‘Sure. There’s lots of rooms.’

  Bakune eased himself down one wall. His left arm ached ferociously and he couldn’t move it. He suspected it was broken. At last Manask managed to pull the spear from his thick armour; he eyed its bright razor tip, impressed. ‘This one almost tickled me.’

  Bakune had been studying the man’s face – one quite thin and long for someone supposedly fat. ‘You’re Boneyman, aren’t you?’

  The man grabbed at his great mane of bushy hair, patting it. ‘What’s that? Boneyman? Ridiculous!’ He cleared his throat and peered around. Lowering his voice, he asked, ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a hammer and chisel, would you?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘No reason! None at all.’ He examined the long spear, its wide thick blade, and rubbed his chin. ‘Hmm. Well, while no one is looking, I shall sneak away unnoticed! Here I go, stealthily, like a very shadow.’ And the man clumped off down the hall.

  Farewell, Manask. Best of luck with whatever mad plan it is you’ve concocted.

  Bakune gathered a handful of sleeve and wiped at the blood drying on his face. ‘What are they doing out there?’ he asked Puller.

  The man frowned, thinking about that. ‘Sitting. Praying.’

  Bakune slowly nodded at the news. ‘Right.’ No more challenging questions for that one …

  Ipshank returned. Bakune raised a questioning brow.

  ‘She’s sleeping.’

  ‘What now?’

  The priest looked off towards the front, his wide mouth turned down. ‘Wait till dawn then get you out of here.’

  Bakune paused in wiping the flakes of blood from inside his ears. ‘I’m sorry? I can’t hear so well right now. Did you say … me?’

  ‘Yes. You.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  The priest found a carved stone fount in which he splashed his face. ‘What for? Hasn’t it oc
curred to you, Assessor, that you are now the senior authority here in Banith? Who else must negotiate with the Moranth?’

  Bakune stared. ‘Me? Negotiate?’

  ‘Yes, and soon.’

  ‘Soon? … Why?’

  Ipshank pressed his fingers to his brow, sighed. ‘Before someone else does.’

  ‘Someone else? But whoever would do that?’

  The priest peered down at him as if to see whether he was serious. ‘Boneyman, for example. He just might decide to take himself down to the wharf.’

  Bakune lurched to his feet. ‘No! All the gods – not him! We must go.’

  Ipshank was nodding steadily.

  From the doors Hyuke spoke up: ‘If you’re in charge now can I be captain? I mean … you have to have more’n a sergeant guarding you. Gotta impress these backwoods Moranth, an’ all.’

  Smiling evilly at Bakune’s discomfort, the priest gestured up the hall.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Holies of the Lady’s worship are a triumvirate: the Three Gems. The first is the Lady Herself, She Who Protects. The second is the Chest, That Which Abides Within. The third is the Priesthood, Those Who Serve.

  Thus are we protected, sustained, and guided. It is a perfect system and the envy of all.

  School Primer

  Damos, Jourilan

  AT FIRST USSÜ WAS MERELY IRRITATED BY THE LATE NIGHT summons from the Envoy, Enesh-jer. Hands at his back, he tramped up the shallow hillside of the Ancy river valley. A servant preceded him, lantern raised, while two Moranth Black guards followed.

  The bodyguard was a recent precaution Borun had forced upon him since the assassination attempt a week ago. Only his sudden recourse to the Warrens, a reflex action, had saved his life that night. The unleashing of power that came with that summons had surprised even him. The assassin had been pulverized instantly, organs burst, fluid gushing from all orifices. The man’s slim keen blade had only brushed the surface of his neck – no more than a shaving cut. Later, he and Borun kicked through the wreckage of his tent. Neither spoke; Ussü imagined both their thoughts ran to suspecting a Claw. How many, he wondered, had Greymane arrived with … the openly self-declared plus the covert, salted away to remain hidden, watchful.