Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  ‘I understand the Blacks have marched off,’ he said weakly.

  ‘So it would seem,’ Greymane rumbled.

  ‘Then we will be attacking?’ Devaleth asked.

  ‘Not quite yet …’ Greymane answered, his shaded gaze on the far shore.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It could be a ploy,’ Rillish explained. ‘A fake withdrawal to draw us into committing ourselves. The remaining troops would fall back, then the Moranth would counterattack, catching us exposed.’

  Devaleth knew she was no strategist, but she was dubious. ‘Sounds very risky.’

  The High Fist was nodding his agreement. ‘Yes. And unlikely – but best be sure.’ He looked to the Adjunct. ‘Kyle, take some scouts north, cross the river, and follow them till nightfall.’

  Devaleth felt a stab of empathetic pain for Fist Rillish: strictly speaking, the Adjunct was not currently in the hierarchy of command. Greymane should have addressed the Fist. Yet the nobleman’s taut strained face revealed nothing. Kyle invited the Fist to accompany him, saying, ‘Perhaps you can recommend some names …’ Kyle at least seemed aware of the awkwardness.

  The High Fist watched the two leave, his mouth turning sour once more, and ducked back into the tent. Devaleth was left alone to ponder the news, and she wondered whether this was the opportunity Greymane had been waiting for, or just another false hope. The gods knew some relief was desperately needed. Fist Shul remained bogged down with the rest of the invasion force, stymied by landslides, floods, downpours and two Skolati uprisings. It seemed the supplies the High Fist had counted on sat rotting in the rain and snow along some nameless track.

  *

  Around noon, while Suth dozed, someone came to camp. He thought he heard his name mentioned, then someone shook him. He sat up, blinking in the harsh light, to see Captain Betteries scowling down at him the way someone might regard a dog turd he’d just stepped in. Suth saluted.

  The captain returned the salute; he was bareheaded, his red hair a mess. His eyes were bruised, and he wore only a dirty linen shirt hanging down over wool trousers. ‘You Suth?’ he asked, his voice hoarse.

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  ‘You can scout?’

  Suth thought about saying no, then decided he’d probably already been volunteered for whatever it was so nodded. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  Suth dragged himself upright, grabbed his armour. ‘Leave that,’ Betteries ordered. Shrugging, Suth complied.

  Sergeant Goss eased forward. ‘I’ll go, sir.’

  ‘No, not you. Just the young bloods.’ The sergeant’s face clouded, but he said nothing. ‘Let’s go, trooper.’ Goss saluted and the captain acknowledged it. ‘Sorry, Goss.’

  The captain collected three others, two squat Wickan plainsmen and a tall girl recruit, coarse-featured, wearing thick leathers, with a wild tangled mane of hair tied off with beads, bits of ribbon and leather braces. ‘Barghast,’ one of the Wickans mouthed to Suth.

  The Adjunct was waiting for them. He wore plain leathers. Tall moccasins climbed all the way to his knees. His sword was sheathed high under his shoulder, wrapped in leather. Suth had seen a good deal of the young man, but he was struck anew by how rangy the fellow was, squat but long-limbed, his face seemingly brutal with its long moustache and broad heavy chin. He motioned to piled equipment. ‘Kit yourselves out.’

  Suth picked up a shoulder bag and found a stash of food. A strip of smoked meat went straight into his mouth while he searched through the rest. Belted long-knives went to his waist, a bow and bag of arrows on his back.

  The Adjunct spoke while they readied themselves. ‘We’ll head north then cross the river. We’re to shadow the Moranth. If you’re spotted, cut away – no leading back to anyone.’ All three nodded, stuffing their mouths. ‘All right. Let’s go.’

  They jogged off. The Adjunct led them east at first, off behind a hillock until out of sight of the far shore, then cut north. Suth was wincing for the first few leagues: gods he was weak! But then his legs loosened up and he found his rhythm.

  The Barghast girl jogged along beside him. ‘You are Dal Hon?’ she asked, grinning.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They say you are good warriors, you Dal Hon. We must fight sometime.’

  Fight? Ahh – fight. He eyed her sidelong: heavier than he usually liked, but that was a promising grin. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Tolat, of the Yellow Clay clan.’

  ‘Suth.’ He flicked his head to the two Wickans following, their eyes on the western skyline. ‘What about those two?’

  ‘Them?’ Tolat shook her head. Her tangled mane swung in the wind. ‘Too much like my brothers. But you … you are different. I like different.’

  Wonderful. Some Barghast gal out to taste the world. Well … who was he to complain? The same could be said of him. ‘Any time you want lessons, you just let me know.’

  She let out a very unladylike braying laugh and punched his arm. ‘Ha! I knew I would like you!’

  ‘Quiet back there,’ breathed the Adjunct.

  Tolat made a face, but Suth did not. He remembered the solid iron grapnels clutching the stern of the Blue war galley, and the Adjunct swinging, severing each cleanly. And on the bridge, shields parted like cloth by that bright blade wrapped now in leather. He also recalled overhearing Goss mutter something while eyeing the young man: ‘Damned Crimson Guard,’ he’d said, as if it were a curse.

  Crimson Guard? Some here claimed seeing them at the Battle of the Crossroads, where the new Emperor was victorious, but Suth wasn’t sure he credited stories like that. Surely they were long gone by now … In any case, he was fully prepared to follow this one’s orders.

  Mid-morning they crossed the river. The Wickan youths held their bows and arrow bags high out of the water as they half drifted, half paddled across. Tolat and Suth followed suit. On the far shore they ran anew, now picking up the pace, eating as they went.

  Night fell and still they hadn’t caught sight of the Moranth column. They’d found the main west trader road and seen signs of a large force’s passing; but still the Adjunct wanted confirmation, and so he pressed on into the dusk. Even the two Wickans, Loi and Newhorse, grimaced their pain when he’d signed for them to start off west anew.

  Suth was beyond grimacing: his chest burned as if aflame, his legs were numb dead weights, even his vision swam. All his gods forgive him. Not one decent meal in weeks and now this? Neethal Looru – the god that comes in the night whom no one has seen. Take me away from this!

  Tolat cuffed Suth on the back, grinning. ‘Come now, Dal Hon. Show me what you can do!’

  He was beginning to dislike that grin.

  It was near the middle of the night before they sighted the Moranth. The reason became instantly obvious as they saw that the damned Blacks hadn’t stopped. They obviously intended to march through till dawn and then probably through the next day as well – otherwise why bother stealing the night march? They meant to get as much room between themselves and Greymane’s forces as they possibly could.

  Suth and his fellow scouts were crouched in the dark amid the brittle brown stalks of a harvested field. Snow lay in patches. The frozen ground numbed Suth’s hands. The Adjunct gestured a withdrawal back behind the ridge of the hill.

  Inside a crude shack, a harvest shelter, they sat together, watching the darkened surrounding fields. ‘They aren’t stopping,’ the Adjunct said, blowing on his hands. No one disagreed. ‘We’ll rest here, then return.’

  ‘I’d rather rest in that farmstead we passed,’ Newhorse said.

  ‘No – no distractions.’

  Suth sympathized completely with Newhorse. In this run, more than a full day’s march for any army, they’d come across occupied farmsteads, corralled cattle, a herd of sheep, even orchards. No scorching tactics of withdrawal and burn here. This country was rich and unspoiled.

  ‘I smelled cooked meat …’ the lean Wickan continued.

  ‘I only sme
ll your foul breath,’ Tolat said.

  The Adjunct raised a hand. ‘Save it. Rest. I’ll take first watch.’

  Suth could barely hold himself erect; he lay down immediately, wondering what this Adjunct was made of to have run him into the ground – and then stand watch!

  He was nudged awake what seemed the next instant. It was still dark, though close to dawn. Everyone was tense; Tolat was readying her bow while keeping the weapon down amid the grass. ‘Something’s up,’ she breathed. Suth did not move because he immediately saw the Adjunct standing at the edge of the field.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Don’t know. He just woke us, walked off.’ She continued readying her gear. ‘It’s like he’s listening.’

  Squinting, he saw how the man clutched his blade, head cocked, before he came jogging back.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come. I’ve attracted … attention. We have to go.’

  ‘What is it?’ Newhorse asked.

  ‘Just run.’

  Suth set off as best he could but he hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s exertions. None of them had; their pace was much reduced. Only the Adjunct seemed unaffected. He often ran ahead, scanning the hillsides while the day brightened around them. A few farmers and herdsmen worked the fields. All fled when they caught sight of them. It appeared that some sort of evacuation had been imposed upon the population, but not all had complied.

  Then Suth caught sight of shapes shadowing them through the fields: low, loping. Hounds. A great pack of beasts. Even as Suth saw them the Adjunct shouted, pointing to an outcrop of rock. They swerved, making for it. Charging the formation, the five set their backs to the thrusting rock face. The hounds burst from the fields all about them, closing. They came snarling, and Suth saw how foam lathered their mouths, their eyes rolling, white all round.

  ‘Rabid!’ he yelled, certain.

  ‘Ancients take them!’ Tolat answered and she snapped out her bedroll, wrapping it round an arm.

  Suth had no time; he’d lost the chance to follow suit. He and the Wickans drew their long-knives. The Adjunct unwrapped his bright curved blade. The animals leapt upon them. Suth used his blades to parry slashing claws. Loi went down almost right away, missing a lunge and falling screaming. The hounds closed over him at once and his cries were cut off instantly. They flinched in, closing upon each other, pressed their backs to the cliff wall. Tolat chanted some sort of war song as she stabbed, rammed her blanketed arm into open maws. Newhorse stabbed as well, using the point to force the hounds away. Suth followed suit. The Adjunct waded in using the tulwar blade one-handed, a long-knife in the other, taking the fight to the hounds. They lunged but he met them full-on, severing heads, limbs, torsos. Two clamped their teeth into him, an arm and a leg; he swung the gleaming tulwar to sever their heads.

  Then the animals suddenly ran, yelping, skittering and falling in their desperation to flee. The four stood still, listening, only their harsh breaths sounding in the night. Suth felt his limbs quivering their anticipation … some thing was coming. They could all feel it.

  Argent flame burst to life in a pillar of roaring, blinding, coruscating power. Suth flinched away. He covered his eyes with an arm, squinting. He could just make out a shape within the searing brilliance, a woman’s outline.

  The Adjunct struck a ready stance, weapons raised.

  ‘Greetings, Outlander,’ a woman’s voice whispered, jarringly sweet in tone, yet coiling with venom. ‘The stink of that sorceress bitch is upon you. Where came you by this blade of yours? Was it a gift … from her?’

  Suth could barely stand: the voice itself hammered at him like blows. It gnawed at his thoughts like acid.

  The lashing flames drew closer yet the Adjunct did not retreat. ‘Who are you, man? What land are you from? There is a strangeness in your blood. I smell it. Perhaps … I should taste it …’ Suth shouted a useless warning as high above a lash of flames whipped up to come slashing down. The Adjunct did not wait for it. He rolled forward into the pillar, swinging his bright blade two-handed across the maelstrom.

  A blast like an eruption of Moranth munitions blew Suth backwards off his feet. He rolled tumbling to strike the stones at the base of the outcrop and lay dazed.

  Suth did not think he’d lost consciousness. He remembered staring at the overcast sky watching snowflakes come floating down to tangle in his eyelashes. He blinked his eyes, rubbed an ear where ringing deafened him. Groaning, he levered himself to his feet. Gods, that reminded him of the blasts that took the wall of Aamil. He staggered forward to find the Adjunct. He found Tolat with him, his head on her lap.

  ‘Is he alive?’ Suth asked, or thought he did; he couldn’t hear his own voice.

  She shrugged, mouthed something.

  ‘We have to get out of here!’

  She stared up at him, uncomprehending. He mimicked picking up the Adjunct and moving. She nodded, then pointed behind him. He turned, alarmed, but it was Newhorse limping up. Blood gleamed down his torn shirt. Suth motioned to the man’s wound; Newhorse pointed to Suth’s head. He touched gingerly at his numb temple and came away with a smear of blood. Damn stones!

  The Adjunct’s scabbard was empty. Suth cast about and eventually found the blade lying amid burned stalks. It still smoked. Using a fold of leather, he picked it up and shoved it back into its scabbard. Had he killed this ‘Lady’ they were all going on about? Probably not.

  He and Tolat carried the Adjunct while Newhorse scouted ahead as best he could. It took them a day and a night to reach the Ancy, and there they were defeated. They could not cross. All they could do was stay hidden and keep watch for any foraging or scouting parties on the far side of the river whose attention they could attract.

  The Adjunct never really recovered. He babbled in a foreign tongue, sweated and shivered in some sort of fever. Eventually Tolat, who could at least claim to have swum before, argued she should go ahead for help. Suth and Newhorse agreed that was better than waiting to be seen. So before dawn Tolat waded out into the frigid Ancy and pushed off, disappearing from sight amid the chop and froth of the swift current. Suth collected some water and returned to the copse where they hid from any Roolian patrols.

  *

  It just so happened that Devaleth was up already when word reached her that one – one! – of the Adjunct’s party had finally returned. She went as swiftly as she could to the High Fist’s tent. Had it been an ambush by Roolian scouts? Had they been detected by the Moranth? Or was it this new mage she’d been sensing? Somehow the man could act without raising the Lady’s ire. All along something had bothered her about sending Kyle; the prospect had troubled her but she hadn’t spoken up during the meeting. Now she wondered.

  A guard raised the opened flap and she saw the female scout, soaked to the bone, standing before the High Fist. Fist Rillish sat to one side, pale but intent.

  ‘By the gods, let the woman sit!’ Devaleth burst out before thinking.

  ‘I’d rather stand, thank you, High Mage,’ the woman managed, her voice a croak.

  ‘As you choose, Tolat,’ said Greymane. Aside, to an aide, he said, ‘You have that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A copse a few hours north. They should see us.’

  ‘Only one squad should approach the river,’ Greymane warned. ‘We don’t want to attract any attention.’

  ‘Sir!’ gasped the scout Tolat, wavering on her feet.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That’s just what the Adjunct said, sir. Attracting attention … that he did … attract …’

  Devaleth took the woman’s arm; she peered at her confused, her eyes glazed. Her weight shifted on to Devaleth, who grunted, suddenly having to support her. Two other aides took Tolat from the mage and carried her out.

  ‘Of course,’ breathed Rillish from his chair. ‘I should have seen it … that sword of his. It must have attracted the— Her attention.’

  Greymane turned on the man. ‘So only now you think of that, Fist Rillish Jal Keth.’

  ‘Si
r!’ Devaleth called out, dragging the High Fist’s attention from Rillish. ‘We all missed that. If anyone is to blame, it is me. I should have foreseen it.’

  For the first time Devaleth felt the full force of the High Fist’s furious ice-blue gaze and she was shaken by the feyness churning there just below the surface. Then the man somehow mastered himself, swallowing, drawing a great shuddering breath, and nodded at her words. ‘Yes … you are right. Yes.’ He turned away, drew a hand across his face. ‘I missed it too.’ And he laughed. ‘I! Of anyone, I should have thought of that!’

  She thought then of the grey blade the man had once carried. Said to have been a weapon of great power. It was responsible for his name in these lands: Stonewielder. And that name a curse. What had happened to it? No one spoke of it, and she’d yet to see anything more than a common blade at the man’s side. He must have lost it during all the intervening years.

  ‘Kyle is wounded – attacked by the Lady,’ Greymane told Devaleth. ‘Can you heal him?’

  She thought little of her chances but she nodded. ‘I’ll get ready. Send him to my tent.’

  The High Fist nodded and Devaleth bowed, exiting.

  Greymane turned to a staff officer. ‘Spread the word. We attack at dawn.’

  The woman’s brows climbed her forehead. ‘But it is dawn … sir.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He gestured to the tent flap. The woman almost fell in her scramble to leave.

  Rillish pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll ready my armour then, High Fist.’

  Greymane had gone to the rear of the tent, thrown open a travelling chest. He studied the Fist as if seeing him there for the first time. ‘No. You stay here.’

  Rillish’s face twisted as he fought to control his reaction. ‘Then … who will lead the assault?’ he asked, his voice as brittle as glass.

  The High Fist slammed an iron barrel helm on to the table. He set a hand atop it, and his eyes burned with a bright blue flame. ‘I will.’