The Pity Stone (Book 3)

by Tim Stead

  Twenty Four – Jerac Fane

  The mess hall was almost empty, which was a blessing. Jerac picked up a plate and filled it with bread, cheese and dried meat. He sat at one of the deserted tables on his own and began to eat. The food was as good as anything he was used to, probably better, but it lacked taste in Jerac’s mouth, and he chewed mechanically.

  He had been rewarded by the duke, but he did not like his reward.

  He had another stripe on his arm, a sergeant’s rank and pay, a chamber in the castle itself that was, to be frank, less comfortable than his room at the Seventh Friend had been, and he didn’t need the pay particularly. He still had a goodly amount from the sale of his old business. But this was his reward, and his new duty was to guard the duchess. He was one of six men assigned the duty, and they stood four hours on eight hours off, day after day.

  He should have refused it.

  But how does a simple soldier refuse a duke, and a duke who was the commander of the army at that, and in the presence of a god? He could have done it, though. They could not have insisted, not with the debts owed to him. He had saved the duchess’s life, and Jidian’s. If he had summoned the courage to ask for it he could have had anything he wanted.

  This assignment was a living hell.

  Not only was he stuck in the castle, far from the great events of the day, but his fellow guards seemed to have taken an instant dislike to him. He could not say why, other than that he was a volunteer from the Seventh Friend, an amateur, and they were all career men. He had tried his best to be likeable, to be humble, but that only seemed to make it worse, and now he was friendless and miserable.

  And the one thing that made it better, the Duchess’s kindness towards him, only made it worse among the other guards. They had not saved her life, and it became apparent to Jerac that they considered this largely down to luck, and not skill on his part. Jerac knew that there was some luck involved. He had just happened to be in the right place at the right time, but he had killed four men, and such things did not happen by chance.

  He heard noise from the other side of the room and looked up to see a group of guardsmen enter. Two of them, Bisalt and Grennant, were of the same duty as Jerac. He bent his head over his plate and turned away, hoping that they would not notice him, or ignore him if they did.

  He was not so lucky. The stools around his table were pulled out and they sat all around him. For a minute or two they seemed to ignore him, carrying on their conversation as though his seat was empty. He tried to finish his plate of food quickly so that he could leave, but before he could they began.

  “You’re Jerac Fane the hero, aren’t you?” one of them said. He didn’t know the man’s name. He didn’t reply.

  “He might be a hero,” one of the others said, “but he’s not very polite. The man was talking to you, Fane.” He pushed Jerac with an elbow, trying to dislodge the bread from his hand. Jerac turned and looked at him.

  “I’m Fane. You know it. Leave me alone.”

  A couple of them laughed and Bisalt leaned forwards. “Tell us how you did it, Fane,” he said. “Took them from behind, I hear.” More of them laughed at this.

  Jerac had never considered himself a man with a temper. As Alos the carpenter he had gone through most of his adult life without losing it. He had been an obliging, polite, even deferential man. Jerac Fane, however, was not so mild. He was a soldier, and this goading had been going on for weeks.

  “You’ll excuse me,” he said. “I have things to do.” He made to stand up, but the men either side of him seized his arms and held him in his seat.

  “No, Fane. Tell us the story, we insist.”

  He had been telling himself to stay calm, to walk away, but the feel of their hands on him, the sensation of restraint made something twist inside him and he reacted without thought. He drove upwards with his legs, pushing his arms out and back.

  The two men pinning him were flung backwards as he stood, and the table, a heavy thing made of oak, flipped over on top of two more. Only the man at the head of the table, Grennant, avoided the eruption. He leaped back and stared at Jerac, a hand automatically going to the hilt of his sword.

  Jerac stood for a moment as the men scrambled to regain their feet. He could feel the heat going out of his face, the moment of rage subsiding. One of the men he didn’t know, one who had been sitting opposite him, did not rise, but lay on his side clutching his thigh. Broken bone, Jerac thought, now I’m in trouble.

  “You’ll answer for this, Fane,” Grennant said. “It’ll have to be reported.”

  “Fine,” Jerac said. “You know where to find me.” He turned and walked out of the mess hall, cursing himself for a fool. Losing control had not been clever, but at the same time he felt a warm glow. It had felt good to use his strength, and they wouldn’t try to lay hands on him again. He was sure of that.

  He walked back through the corridors of the keep with a heavy tread. He hadn’t felt like this since he was a child learning lessons. He had done something wrong and punishment loomed ahead, though he had no idea what form that might take. Perhaps he would lose a stripe. Perhaps they would send him back to the Seventh Friend in disgrace. His mood lifted a little at the thought.

  Jerac hadn’t meant to hurt the man. It had been wrong to hurt him, but it had been an accident. He had struck nobody, laid hands on nobody. He could argue that it had not been his fault at all. He would not, though. He would stand mute. He would answer whatever questions he was asked as briefly as he could. He would not lie, but neither would he protest his innocence. It was not the soldiers’ way.

  He sat in his room and waited. His duty had finished only an hour ago, and he had been due to sleep, but he could not. Instead he tried to think about what had happened. He had lost his temper. It had only been for a moment, but in that moment he had broken another man’s leg. Part of him said that the man had deserved it. Another part said that he could not afford to lose his temper. He was strong – much stronger than he had any right to be – and he seemed impervious to injury.

  It all had something to do with being in the Wolf’s favour, but he didn’t understand it. That arrow had been a blood silver arrow, designed to kill a god, but it had passed through him without leaving a scar. That meant that he was harder to kill than a god. His strength was part of it, too. He had been changed, and he had to be careful or he would kill people as he had broken the soldier’s leg – carelessly.

  Well, life was an adventure after all, and this was just another part of it. He would be reprimanded, punished, but there was nothing they could do really. Even if he was thrown out of service – and he did not think that would happen – he had money, a horse, a sword. He would volunteer somewhere else. Perhaps the Berashis would want an extra blade.

  When they came for him he was calm. There was a lieutenant and two men he did not know. They knocked on his door, which was polite at least. He opened it.

  “Sergeant Jerac Fane?” The lieutenant looked young, but he had a firm eye. Noble blood, Jerac guessed.

  “I am,” he replied.

  “You will follow me,” the officer said. Jerac nodded. The officer led, Jerac followed, and the two guards brought up the rear. It was the configuration they used for low risk prisoners. So they still thought they could trust him to obey.

  They walked down to the base of the castle, skirting the private quarters of the nobility, and across the courtyard to the guard house. This was where the officer of the day would be stationed, so it had gone no higher than that, at least. He was escorted into the building and up a short staircase to a chamber that sat over the gate itself. The room was not very large, about four paces by ten, and it was crowded. He recognised Grennant and Bisalt at once, and was surprised to see that the officer of the day was the major, commander of the castle and city guard. The old man looked stern sitting behind a rough hewn pine table. The injured soldier wasn’t present, but the other two were, and another four guards, so with Jerac their little party put t
hirteen men in the room.

  “Sergeant Jerac Fane,” the escort lieutenant said. “As ordered.”

  The major said nothing for a moment, but pushed a couple of sheets of paper around his table.

  “Your record is exemplary, if short,” he said. Jerac didn’t answer. He wasn’t expected to. “Volunteered. Selected for elite infantry training. Top soldier in that unit. Successful engagement with hostile elements. Veteran’s stripe, promoted. Acted in defence of Jidian, God of eagles, successfully, promoted. Assigned to personal guard of the duchess of Bas Erinor. Brawling in the mass hall.” He turned the sheet of paper over and sat back in his chair. “That last entry stands out, Sergeant Fane. Do you have anything to say?”

  “No sir.”

  “No excuse?”

  “No sir.”

  “No reason?”

  Jerac glanced across at Bisalt. “No sir,” he said.

  The Major sighed. “You’re all the same,” he said. “But fortunately for justice there were some people in the mess hall who were not members of the guard, and they were able to tell me exactly what happened.”

  Jerac looked at the floor. He couldn’t remember anyone else being there. He’d thought the hall was empty.

  “Fane was provoked. You laid hands on him and he threw you about. That’s what they say. I find it hard to believe, seeing that two of you outweigh Fane by twenty pounds each. My witness says there was no intent to harm on either side, as far as can be told, but it was a breach of discipline unbecoming of guardsmen. You were all at fault.”

  Fault, yes, but Jerac was glad that someone had seen it. He would get the punishment he deserved, and not something worse. He glanced at the Major, but the old man wasn’t smiling. He was drumming his fingers on the top of the desk, staring at each of them in turn.

  “You need to learn how to weather each other’s company,” he said. “And you need to be punished. So it’s a week’s gate duty for all of you. You’ll take the morning shift at the River Gate – four in the morning until midday – and full military rules. I won’t have any slackness.”

  They looked at each other. It wasn’t so bad, really. Jerac could just keep his head down and he’d be all right. It didn’t change anything, though. He’d hoped to get away from the city, but gate duty was at least better than standing in a corridor all day with your arms folded. There would be people and open air. He didn’t doubt the others would goad him, but he reckoned he could cope with that now. At least they wouldn’t touch him again.

  “One more thing,” the Major said. “Fane will be acting lieutenant and you’ll all be under his command. Clear? Now get out of here and make sure I don’t hear from you again.”

  Fane was stunned. So much for keeping his head down. The Major had given him command of the River Gate for eight hours a day. It was the last thing he wanted. The only thing he’d commanded in his life was a carpenter’s workshop, and that was mostly helping people to do things right, teaching journeymen their trade, and they were keen to know it. Now he had four men who disliked him under his hand, and that was a different game altogether.

  “Sir.” The Major turned and looked at him. “Duty starts tomorrow at four?”

  “That’s right, lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.” He saluted, turned on his heel and left. He was unescorted. Free. Promoted. The four men were waiting for him in the bailey. They looked worried, and it was Bisalt that stepped towards him.

  “Fane…”

  Jerac stopped and looked at him, imitating the look he’d seen officers sometimes employ. It worked.

  “Er, lieutenant, look, it sort of got out of hand in the mess. No offence intended. Water under the bridge, eh?”

  “Four in the morning, River Gate,” he replied, and carried on walking past them. This was a moment to enjoy, he decided. They would sleep badly tonight, and he would sleep well. In the morning he would not be able to play such games. He had to take the job seriously, and he would try to be a good officer to the men. They were guards after all, and some of the best soldiers in Bas Erinor – just not quite as good as Jerac Fane.

  Twenty Five – Kayde, Jimmer

  Captain Kayde led his men carefully. He had a hundred and fifty, a large scouting force riding ahead of the main column. He knew that Seth Yarra were in the area. Reports had held that they were marching north through this part of the country and to be honest he had expected to meet them by now.

  He was a good way from the main column and he had outriders set, north south east and west as the book said. He was not looking for any surprises. The sun was still high in the sky, or as high as it got in winter, and he was thinking of halting his unit for a midday break. He was tired of riding. His horse was tired, too. They had let themselves get out of shape over the summer, always waiting for war and never actually seeing it.

  Kayde didn’t mind that. He was a practical man of thirty-five summers. He had a pretty wife, two children – a boy and a girl – and a nice house in Teller Street. He was keen to see them all again, and if he could go the war without getting killed that would suit him fine. He was not hungry for glory.

  On the other hand he had not become a soldier because he was afraid of a fight. Kayde knew his duty, and he knew his trade. He was just not quite as dedicated to it as he had been as a single man. This meant that he was a grateful admirer of Wolf Narak, and of Colonel Arbak, though he was not a Seventh Friend man himself. They and the boy Captain Henn had saved all of them a bloody year’s work, and he was truly thankful for that. He didn’t envy them their promotions, their titles and glories. He just wanted to get to the end of the war and go home.

  He paused on a rise and looked at the land ahead. It was pleasant country, this, a patchwork quilt of green fields and woodland. It was the sort of place that Kayde had grown up. They called it the close country, a couple of hundred miles north of Bas Erinor, the land that fed the city. He could see oak and beech woods, winter naked, and a few miles ahead a dark patch that could only be pines. They looked out of place.

  Down below there was a place they could stop. A meadow. There was a wood to the east and a ploughed field to the west that was showing some green and a brook running across the south side. It was the sort of stream that would slow down infantry but was jumpable for a mounted man. There was no bridge that he could see.

  “We’ll take midday down there,” he said. His lieutenant, a man called Jimmer, nodded.

  “Usual scouts and guards?”

  “The usual,” Kayde replied. If they didn’t meet Seth Yarra today it seemed unlikely that they would meet them at all. It was increasingly probable that the enemy had turned or they were too far east. A quiet patrol would be a good thing.

  He rode down the track, leaning back in the saddle to balance his mount. He was tired enough that he had to concentrate on the task, even though the track was quite good for a pack trail. At the bottom he drifted to one side and paused, looking up at his men coming down the track after him. They looked comfortable, easy in the saddle.

  He heard hooves drumming, someone in a hurry coming across the meadow from the south. He turned and saw a scout, one of his, riding hard. He turned to meet the man, trotted gently in his direction. They met just clear of the trees.

  “What is it?” Kayde asked.

  “Not sure, sir,” the man said. “Picked up Seth Yarra sign, infantry tracks, no horses, going down into a valley up ahead. We circled round, but can’t find anything coming out. Must still be there.”

  “But?” Kayde was enough of a commander to know he wasn’t hearing the full story. There was a mystery here.

  “Tracks are four days old, sir,” the man said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s been no rain.”

  He was no tracker himself, but he trusted his scouts. They’d proved their worth last year out in the plains north of Afael. After the slaughter at Finchbeak Road they had helped the Afaeli cavalry track a couple of Seth Yarra remnants, and then helped
his own unit feed itself by tracking and bringing back fresh game.

  “So they’re still there,” he said.

  “Looks that way, sir, but I can’t figure why.”

  “Do you know what’s in that valley?” he asked.

  “Pines, sir. There’s a burnt village just where they went in, and I think there’s a house down there, a grand house, sir.”

  “Do you know whose?”

  “No, sir.”

  There was no doubt that it was a mystery. Seth Yarra had been marching steadily from all reports, twenty miles a day, rain or shine. Now they’d stopped. Could this house be some sort of objective? Like any Avilian Kayde knew the houses, or at least the principle houses of the great lords, and this wasn’t one of them. He sent the scout back to watch the road and ambled his horse over to where Jimmer was setting up for midday.