Stonewielder

by Ian Cameron Esslemont

  Gods, not again. Surely not. His lie would see Bars through this season. Of that he was sure. After that … all that was too far away to care any more. He had betrayed too egregiously. The lie burned too virulently in his chest. Yet surely some of them must still survive! Somewhere!

  Now he lay jammed in with the worst of the Stormguard’s cullings. Dumped among those imprisoned within what was itself one immense prison. The murderers, the incurably rebellious, and the just plain mad. He was dying of starvation. Food came on plates shoved through a narrow slit. The strongest fell upon it and wolfed it down, leaving none for the rest. And since Corlo chose not to rouse himself he went without. Such was life without rules beyond individual gratification.

  He set his head back. A cold breeze chilled him here below the single narrow chute that opened to the outside. No one spoke to him. Not only was he a foreigner; all here knew a hopeless case when they saw one. He had now what Hagen had identified as ‘the look of a jumper’. It was too late now. Even if he wanted to he hadn’t the strength to fight for his share. He would fade away. He rubbed at the metal torc round his neck alloyed with magic-deadening otataral. Too late. He’d planned to have Hagen wrench it from him when the time was right. So much for his grand plan for escape.

  It was just too awful. All this effort to remain alive to help Bars – only to deceive him beyond all excuse. It was too much.

  How many days had passed? He knew not. The glow from the deep chute that allowed light here far within the bowels of the Stormwall came and went. The engorged heartbeat of waves pounded ceaselessly through the stones.

  Farewell, Halfpeck. I wish you better luck. May you see your way out. We made a good show of it. Almost made it, too. Crossed half the damned world only to fall short of Quon Tali, into the hands of these provincial, blinkered, ignorant religious fanatics.

  Damn them to Hood’s deepest vault.

  Some time later Corlo was roused by yells and blows in the cell. Guards had entered and were swinging truncheons right and left as they worked their way through the prisoners. They appeared to be searching for someone.

  Oh, damn, no. Not again. No. Never. I’ll not …

  Hands took hold of him, lifted him.

  No! Damn you! I’d rather die!

  He tried to fight but he was too weak. The effort blackened his vision and he knew nothing more.

  He awoke lying on a pallet of straw. He no longer shuddered uncontrollably; warmth flowed over him from an iron brazier in the middle of what was a long hall where wounded lay on either side of the narrow walk between. Some sort of infirmary overflow. Gods, no. They couldn’t need him again so soon, could they? His heart clenched. Could there be trouble with Bars?

  Someone sat next to his pallet. He smelled hot stew that sent his stomach churning.

  ‘Eat,’ the someone said.

  ‘Go away.’

  The person leaned closer, said, lower, ‘You must eat, Corlo.’

  Corlo turned his head and there sat Jemain, First Mate on board their ship, the Ardent, before the Marese sank it off the coast of Fist. ‘Queen’s mysteries, Jemain! What are you doing here?’

  The skinny fellow shrugged, grinning. ‘I’m a trustee. Been keeping track of you. When I heard you were here I pulled a few favours.’

  ‘But they wanted to keep us separate …’

  The man lost his grin. ‘Well, they seem to have forgotten who came with who. They have bigger worries, hey?’ He stirred the stew, offered a spoonful to Corlo, who ate it. ‘Anyway … I came because I have news. I met someone. A woman …’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘A sense of humour. A good sign. You’re recovering. No, this one fought like a demon on the wall and when I mentioned the name Bars she reacted like she knew him.’

  Corlo’s stomach coiled, tensing. He tried to sit up. Hood no! Not someone else! ‘Who!’

  ‘Do you know the name Shell?’

  Corlo stared. Surely not Shellarr? How could they have captured her? Unless … ‘Was she blonde?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Attractive?’

  The man almost blushed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘A mage?’

  Jemain frowned. He stirred the stew, offered some more to Corlo, who ate absently. ‘She wore no neck tore …’

  Corlo sat back. ‘The woman I know as Shell is a mage. She would’ve had a neck tore.’

  ‘Unless she’s hidden it from the Chosen.’

  Suddenly tired, Corlo shut his eyes. ‘You say she fought well?’

  ‘Well enough to catch the attention of the Stormguard,’ Jemain said bitterly.

  Shell was Avowed. Mage or not, that alone would place her among the most formidable here on the wall … ‘Who was with her? Do you know?’

  ‘She came with others. A few. I could dig around.’

  Corlo nodded, eyes shut. ‘Yes. Find out who she came with. Names. Descriptions.’ Struck by a new thought, he opened his eyes. ‘Who else are you in contact with? Who do you know of?’ The man was quiet for a time; Corlo glanced over. Gaze lowered, he was stirring the stew. ‘Do you know who’s left, Jemain?’

  Gathering himself, the man nodded. ‘Yes, Corlo. I know.’

  ‘Good. Who?’

  The man pressed the wooden bowl into Corlo’s hands. ‘More of that later. That is enough for now. I have to go ask around, yes?’

  Corlo grasped the man’s wrist as tightly as he could; which was hardly tight at all. ‘Who!’

  Jemain pressed him back. ‘Don’t worry yourself, Corlo. Rest. That is enough for now. I’ll have more information in time.’

  ‘You’re coming back?’

  ‘Yes. Once I find out more.’ He stood. ‘This woman, Shell. She might be Avowed?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Good. I’ll ask around. Good to see you.’

  ‘And you.’

  Jemain squeezed his shoulder then moved off. Corlo lay back, stared at the stone ceiling. Halfpeck, then. Maybe Meek, Dropper, Joden and Peel. The old Blade. Surely them. Surely of everyone they would have survived. And this woman, Avowed? Probably not. Why would they infiltrate the Stormwall? Bars was convinced that under Skinner the Guard had turned from its old mission. Were

  they here to finish him off? But why come at all? Surely Bars is contained where he is. Yet he remains among the Avowed; he’ll always be a threat to them.

  Very well … He found the spoon and stuck it into his mouth to suck on it. He’d have to see. And if there were Avowed of the Guard here, then in a way he hadn’t really lied, had he?

  * * *

  The drain of requisitions for supplies, stores and men led Hiam to the length of Stormwall administered out of Ice Tower, north of Kor. It lay to the east beyond a tall headland and this Hiam climbed alone, cloak tight about him, spear held at an easy angle. Reaching the crest of the pass he was surprised to be challenged by sentries out beyond the obscuring snowfall.

  ‘Halt! Who is there!’

  Irritated, Hiam called back: ‘By what authority do you challenge a Stormguard on the wall itself?’

  ‘Advance!’

  The sentries were not Chosen Stormguard themselves, a fact that eased Hiam’s mind, for that would have been an egregious waste. The men were in fact two Theftian recruits carrying shields and swords. ‘You are?’ one demanded.

  ‘The Lord Protector come to see Master Stimins.’

  The two gaped at him, then each other. They sheathed their swords. ‘Our apologies. We are just here to warn people off. There are repairs ahead – dangerous footing.’

  Hiam cocked a brow. ‘Really.’

  ‘Yes, ah, sir. Master Stimins requests that no one continue on.’

  ‘And do you think this prohibition includes me?’

  The two shared another glance. ‘Hard to say,’ one murmured, scratching his neck.

  The other shrugged. ‘We got our orders.’

  Fighting a smile, Hiam studied the butt end of his spear as he tapped the ice rime glittering on th
e stones of the walk. ‘Orders … That I can understand. What to do then? It is a thorny question.’

  The two shared frowns. One stamped his feet. The other held his hands over a brazier on an iron stand next to their post. They seemed to be hoping he would just go away.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Hiam suggested, ‘one of you might escort me … onward?’

  One shot a glance to the other. ‘Dunno. Maybe.’

  ‘I’ll let Master Stimins know you were most vigilant.’

  The two relaxed, letting out pluming breaths the wind snatched away. ‘Well … okay,’ one allowed. ‘I’ll take you. Gnorl, you stay on guard.’ He invited Hiam onward. ‘This way.’

  Hiam followed, a rueful smile hidden behind the narrow slit of his helm. He didn’t bother pointing out that he’d run up and down the wall since childhood.

  Cresting the tall headland they descended to the low beach overlooked by the Ice Tower and its curtain wall. As they drew closer Hiam caught glimpses of that arc of curtain wall through the intervening gusting snowfall and he halted as if frozen himself.

  Lady deliver us!

  A great waterfall of blue-green ice enveloped lengths of it. The ice coursed over and down the rear of the wall, frozen in the act of falling. Figures worked like dark struggling ants upon the ice, hammering and chiselling, while others stood guard, facing the smashing waves.

  What has happened here? Has it collapsed? ‘Take me to Master Stimins,’ he snarled to the guard and started down, slipping and staggering upon the slick rock steps. He found the Master Engineer directing repairs from the base of Ice Tower. He came upon the man suddenly, the blowing snow parting. Over the driving wind and the shuddering impact of the waves the engineer was yelling directions to a handful of workers. Hiam presumed these to be his crew chiefs. Upon seeing Hiam the men straightened, saluting, and Stimins’ back flinched, becoming rigid. ‘Dismissed,’ he told the men, who bowed to Hiam and disappeared off into the driving snow.

  ‘When were you going to tell me?’ Hiam demanded.

  Stimins slowly turned. ‘You have the entire wall to manage, young Hiam. I hoped to spare you this worry.’

  Hiam grunted, accepting that, though he was outraged. ‘Well, I’m here now. What are you doing about this?’

  The old man gestured up the length of the walk to where equipment, rope, and blocks of stone lay jumbled and veined in ice. ‘I’m raising the wall.’

  ‘Raising it? During attacks of the Riders?’ Hiam was astounded – yet what else were they to do? He scanned the sea: the waves churned wind-chopped, but no burgeoning surge drove up the inlet, not today. Not now. Hiam could sense an assault to the hour just by the pitch of the wind. ‘How goes it?’

  Stimins shook his nearly bald head. ‘Work is too slow. We’re losing too many men. The Riders smell blood. We need more guards.’

  Yet all the Chosen were assigned – and each was vital to his position. The truth was, they had no men to spare. Due south of here, though, lay the city of Kor itself. The Riders could not be allowed to breast this section. A new question occurred to Hiam. ‘If there was no collapse, no break. Why here? Why now?’

  The old man looked away, his mouth wrinkled tight. He examined his gnarled twisted hands, which were wrapped in rags. ‘I’d hoped to spare you, Hiam. It is not welcome news … the truth is, the wall has not lowered … the sea has risen.’

  Hiam stared. Rising? All along the wall? No wonder the butcher’s bill had climbed so – he’d thought it their thinning numbers. But no. It was worse. For who can fight the sea? Yet … was that not what their ancestors had done for generations? How dare they do any less? Lady – why do you test us so? Is our devotion lacking? Is this a punishment?

  He gripped his spear until his hands numbed. Very well, Blessed Lady … you shall witness. Our piety, our fervour, shall humble all who witness it!

  ‘What of the west, the Wind Tower and the weakness there?’

  Stimins nodded. ‘I believe that also follows from the rising sea. All the flaws are emerging now under this increased pressure.’

  Hiam snorted. You have the truth of that, Master Engineer. Flaws in more than just the wall. And those flaws must be hammered away else the Lady will allow us to fall. ‘Very good, Stimins. You’ll have whatever you need.’

  ‘More guards for the work gangs?’

  Hiam thought of the latest communiqués from loyal sources in Rool. Troops massing in Lallit for transport. All good signs. Yet reports also of the invader fleet in Banith. The Betrayer’s forces meaning to invade there? Ridiculous, with Rool to pacify. They would need it as a foothold. The Betrayer would not abandon it. The fleet was merely over-wintering in calmer waters. They meant to repair and refit.

  He just had to hold on until that Roolian manpower arrived.

  Again, Hiam’s instincts spoke to him. They may not have the numbers, but they had their champion, revitalized of late. And other skilled prisoners – even mercenaries. He would bring them all here; pour everything they had into this breach.

  They would hold. They had to. They would be given no choice.

  * * *

  The Army of Reform crawled northward at a cripple’s pace that did nothing for Ivanr’s mood. Ahead of their outriders villages burned all across the landscape. Each cast a black plume of smoke that mixed and swelled, announcing open warfare between Imperial loyalists and Reform sympathizers. The smoke struck Ivanr as a fitting banner heralding their approach. Their numbers swelled further as sympathizers joined the army proper, or contributed to the swollen informal army of followers and refugees dragging along behind. All told he estimated their numbers at nearing fifty thousand. A huge force – in numbers. Largest yet of all the peasant uprisings and heretical messianic movements that he knew of from the past. Yet by his estimate less than a third could really be counted on to stand unflinching and fight.

  He walked close to its centre now, completely disengaged from the day-to-day logistics and organization of command. So it was he could only watch while the army’s unofficial sappers and engineers demolished many of the wooden buildings they passed. They piled the beams and lumber on to wagons for transport. Seeing this, he came to the dispiriting conclusion that Martal was preparing for a siege of Ring. The woman’s lumbering carriages also rumbled here and there amid the disorganized crowds like siege-towers on the move. Seeing them heaving along reminded him of their commander’s opaque claim that they’d brought their own fortress with them. Were they intended as a sort of mobile archers’ platform? She must know she couldn’t count on employing the same tactics as before. The Imperials would be ready for them this time.

  A light drizzle fell, cold and discomforting. Its chill reminded him that much farther north the Korelri faced down the Stormriders in the name of their own defence – even as he and this army of heretics and polytheists sought to usurp the Lady’s worship. Who was right? Was either of them? Again he wished Beneth were here, though he had never thought to discuss such matters with him while the man lived. What then was to be his role, if not teacher, prophet or inspiration? The question still tormented him and further blackened his mood.

  A man waited to make his way through the layers of guards now surrounding him. Tall and sickly-thin: the old pilgrim. Ivanr nodded to allow him through. He approached, bowing, and paced Ivanr.

  ‘You have news?’ Ivanr asked.

  The man’s drawn face was grim. ‘Yes.’ The rain had plastered his dirty grey hair over his uneven skull.

  ‘Troubling news?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ivanr motioned to the overcast sky. ‘Not a day for bad news.’

  ‘No day would be good for this news.’

  Does this fellow delight in being the bearer of bad news? ‘All right. What is it?’

  The man took a fortifying breath. ‘We have word from reliable sources that the Priestess still lives.’

  Ivanr stared at the man. ‘Generous gods! This is bad news?’

  ‘She is with the Imperial Army.
They are bringing her with them.’

  Ivanr rubbed the cold rain from his face as they continued to walk along. They were bringing her south – to them? ‘And you are worried …’

  ‘What they intend, yes. I believe they mean to make a spectacle of her death.’

  Yes. That would make sense. A gruesome lesson in the uselessness of rebellion. Yet do they really believe that would terrify these people? It would only infuriate them. Strengthen their resolve, not weaken it. In fact, it may provoke a bloodbath. Could that be their real intent? To goad these peasants into a precipitous attack? I will have to warn Martal.

  ‘Thank you … What is your name, anyway?’

  A humourless tightening of the thin bloodless lips. ‘Orman.’

  ‘You served in Beneth’s organization?’

  ‘Yes, in addition to my preaching.’

  Ivanr eyed him sidelong. ‘When we spoke before … were you acting for Beneth?’

  He shook his head, completely untroubled. ‘Then, I spoke for the Priestess.’

  ‘Well, I’m not one to meddle among Beneth’s choices. So, what now?’

  For a time Orman walked along in silence, hands behind his back, head cocked. ‘With your permission I will travel ahead to Ring city. Early on we made an effort to seed the city with followers. Now we’re pretty much locked teeth and throat in an unofficial battle for control of it.’

  ‘How goes it?’

  A clenched, pained look crossed the fleshless face. ‘Poorly. These Imperials have finally caught on. They’ve sealed the roads north. Forced refugees back into the city. They’re not giving up any more ground.’

  ‘I see. So … what is your prediction?’

  He tilted his head. ‘This time I believe the fate of the city will be decided by the battle. Whoever wins that will win the city – and half the country. Impartially speaking, the Imperials really should not meet us upon the field. They ought to garrison Ring, deny it to us, and watch our movement dissolve away goalless and unfocused …’ He sighed, lifting his bony shoulders. ‘But that they will not do. The way these uprisings have been dealt with in the past will dictate how the Imperials will handle this one now.’