The Pity Stone (Book 3)

by Tim Stead

  He could not use the Ashet. It could deliver the message, but it was in thrall to Kirrith, and his words were not for the dragon. If only he had a calling ring like the one he had given Pascha. If only he had control of the magic that coursed through his body.

  But Narak had learned that many things were possible, things that he could not have imagined. He no longer knew his limitations. He was flooded with the wild magic of dragons, and there were many links with Pascha. Was she not his Eran? Had she not put her mark upon him? The calling ring was there, too, and surely that was something that could be forced to work both ways.

  They would not leave for Fal Verdan at once. He had no idea how quickly a dragon could travel, but Kirrith didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Narak had to go back outside to fetch supplies from his sled, food and drink, and it was on his way back from this errand, while he was alone in the thin prison of the dark tunnel that he stopped and tried.

  He wedged himself in a crack as comfortably as he could. He did not bother to close his eyes because there was no light. He thought of Pascha, bringing her image before him as clearly as he could, her red hair, green eyes, slightly petulant expression. He remembered the tilt of her head when she was listening to something which she did not quite believe. He remembered the way that she dropped one shoulder when she wanted to interrupt, the way that she looked to the right when exasperated. He heard her voice, stronger than you would expect from such a small frame, and a little deeper. He remembered her scent.

  Pascha. Hear me.

  There was no response, just darkness and the sound of his own breathing.

  He imagined the Sirash. It was gone, he knew, but he imagined it; made it up again inside his own head. He remembered the lights that were not lights, the oily, silky feeling, the special light that was Pascha with all its unique character.

  Pascha. You must hear me.

  The darkness stared back at him, unblinking. This was not working. He reached down inside himself and found the power that lived there. He took on his aspect.

  For a moment he was afraid. It had never felt like this before. The surge of strength was immense. The mountain seemed to shudder around him, and somewhere nearby the rock cracked. He seemed larger, different, more.

  Pascha.

  Narak?

  He recognised her at once.

  Narak, how are you doing this?

  Do not ask. I cannot explain. Just know that on the last day of spring, at Fal Verdan, I will be there.

  Alone?

  No.

  You are bringing dragons with you?

  They are bringing me. I will have the Pity Stone. They, too, want to stop the Bren.

  There was a pause, and Narak thought that he had lost his connection to Pascha, but then her voice came into his head again.

  How are you doing this?

  It doesn’t matter. I wanted to warn you, that is all.

  Thank you.

  I have to go.

  I will see you in twelve days?

  Yes.

  The pause stretched out again, and Narak allowed himself to relax, felt the dragon magic recede, and his aspect quieten again. He felt a little dazed, and the darkness of the cave danced with a little random light, as though he had pressed his eyeballs. He shook his head. Kirrith would be waiting.

  Kirrith was indeed waiting. The dragon’s eyes were on the cave entrance when Narak came to it and they followed him as he climbed out and unloaded the things he had brought from his sled.

  “What did you do?” Kirrith asked.

  “Do?”

  “In the cave,” Kirrith said. “You did something. There was a change.”

  “I put on my aspect,” Narak said. He wasn’t going to tell Kirrith about talking to Pascha. Dragons and god-mages had a difficult history, and he had already sensed that there was some mistrust there.

  “I have heard of this, but never seen it,” Kirrith said. “What is it?”

  Narak thought back. It had always been a part of him – what he thought of as his true form, a combination of the wolf and the man which retained the characteristics of both. He had seen his aspect in the mirror, and there was really very little of the wolf in his changed appearance, and what change there was from a natural man was difficult to describe. Pelion had called it his naked state, the union of all that he was.

  “It is who I am,” Narak replied.

  “So this appearance is a deception?” Kirrith asked.

  Narak shrugged. “No more than when I am The Wolf,” he said. “No more than the left side of my face. It is just more comfortable for men to see me this way.”

  “I am not a man.”

  “That much is obvious.”

  Narak did not know what a dragon looked like when it smiled, but he thought what Kirrith did might have been close.

  “Will you permit me to see the change?” he asked.

  “If you wish,” Narak replied. He dropped the veil and again there was the unfamiliar rush of power. The torches above him fluttered, and all around him the great cavern seemed to shake. Narak looked up at Kirrith, and if anything his sight was even sharper than he remembered. It seemed as bright as day, and he could see every detail of the cavern and the great dragon. The dragon looked surprised, and surprisingly seemed to withdraw a little.

  Then Narak caught sight of his own hand. It was not the hand he remembered. He froze and stared. It was not even remotely a man’s hand. The pink of the nails had become white and the nails themselves talons. His fingers had thickened and lengthened, the skin darkened. There were scales, like a dragon. He held his arms up before him and saw the same thing.

  “A gift indeed,” Kirrith said.

  There was no mirror here, no pool of water that might serve the purpose. Narak put his hands to his face and found the shape unchanged, but his skin was hard as steel – his new hands could feel that much – and he spoke to Kirrith.

  “What have you done to me?” he demanded. Even his voice surprised him. It filled the cavern, booming, deep.

  “You have become a man that cannot be killed,” the dragon said. “No blade can cut your skin, no fire burn you, no weight crush you. You are dragon kin indeed.”

  Sixty – Pascha

  The Seth Yarra had begun their spring march, just as she had expected. It was not yet clear where they were going, but it must be either Fal Verdan or the White Road, and she must ensure that it would be Fal Verdan.

  The question was how to do that.

  If she told them that her forces were at Fal Verdan they might try to circumvent the army and go via the White Road again, trusting to the lack of burnable forest. The northern pass was still impassable, but would not be for long. On the other hand they might be keen to meet the alliance in battle once more, and head directly to Fal Verdan.

  Pascha was not worried about the White Road. It was the work of a few minutes to block it. She could bring mountains down into it, or raise the ground up to block it. But she didn’t want to do that. She wanted them there, at Fal Verdan, on the last day of spring.

  Her first task, she realised, was to choose those who might carry her message. There were Seth Yarra prisoners scattered about the kingdoms this side of the Dragon’s Back, but she needed prisoners that would be believed. She needed officers – cleansers.

  She had given much thought to the choice.

  Early in the war, before the first battles, Narak had captured a handful of them at Bel Arac – men who had been sent to protect the traitor Marquis of that lordship. As far as she knew they were still incarcerated there. Narak had told her that these men had been confident of victory, unbowed by their capture. She did not know if they still felt so sure of themselves, but a little doubt might be useful.

  She went to Bel Arac. It was not a place that she knew well, so she took herself to the forest beyond the town gate. It was what Narak always did because of his wolves. He said that taking them into a town might cause distress, and besides, it gave him a chance to assess the place be
fore he made himself known.

  She walked out of the trees and joined the road, walking up and through the gate without attracting any attention. She was plainly dressed and it was a little after midday, so the gates were wide and the guards were dozing off their lunch. The only alert man nodded to her and smiled.

  She ignored him and kept walking up the main thoroughfare that led to the castle gates. Here there were more men, and they did not seem as sleepy. One of them stepped forward to meet her when it became apparent that she intended to pass through their gate.

  “Hold there,” the man said. “You cannot pass.”

  Pascha was mildly amused by the thought. She played along.

  “I have business within,” she said.

  “What business is that, and who with?”

  “I need to talk to your Seth Yarra prisoners,” she replied.

  The guard raised an eyebrow. “Not going to happen,” he said.

  Another man, noticeably better dressed, stepped forward and put a hand on the guard’s shoulder.

  “He’s new at this, my lady,” the newcomer said. “But we need to know your name and by what authority you seek audience with the prisoners, or we would be failing in our duty.”

  This new man, an officer, she guessed, was polite at least, and not in the least unpleasing to the eye. She smiled at him.

  “You would know me best as Benetheon God of Sparrows,” she said. “I come on my own authority.”

  The man who had denied her was suddenly very quiet, very still. The officer stared at her. It was a difficult moment for him, and she appreciated that. He did not know her. He only had her word for who she was and he had a responsibility to guard his prisoners. On the other hand he would be unwise to anger a god.

  He drew a knife from his belt. “Will you offer me your hand?” he asked. It was a novel approach. He would try his steel blade on her skin, and it would fail to cut her if she was Benetheon. It was impertinent as well, but Pascha held out her hand palm upwards and met his eye. The officer paused for a moment, the tucked the blade away again.

  “Good enough for me,” he said. “Welcome to Bel Arac, Deus.” He bowed.

  Pascha was amused by his solution. He had confirmed her identity without offering her physical insult, though another might have bluffed past his test.

  “What is your name?” she asked him.

  “I am Captain Grayl Innat, Guard of Bel Arac,” he replied.

  “Take me to the prisoners, Captain,” she said.

  The captain spoke a quiet word to the gate guards and then set off across the bailey to the keep. Pascha walked beside him. The captain did not speak, but Pascha did.

  “These Seth Yarra,” she asked. “They have been treated well?”

  “They do not sleep on silk sheets, Deus,” the captain replied. “But they are warm and fed. We allow them to see the sky every day, and to talk among themselves. Those are the customs here in Bel Arac.”

  “And are they still defiant?”

  “They behave, Deus, but they still believe in their cause. They ask me for news of the war because they know that I speak Afalel, but they do not believe all that I tell them.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “They will serve our cause well,” she said.

  The captain gave her a curious look, but did not question her. It was not his place. Inside the keep they came to a door barred on both sides. It was opened for them and they descended into torch-lit twilight. Pascha reflected that all castle prisons looked the same, and she had seen many in her recent travels. There was always a guard room, always cell doors facing out into it, always a table and chairs. She wondered if someone had designed them this way, or if each was just a copy of the others.

  “We keep them in a common cell, Deus. It used to be the grand cell, reserved for prisoners of blood, but since the marquis fell we have none of those. It’s a little small for four men. Do you wish to speak with them?”

  “I do.”

  The captain gestured to one of the prison guards and that man went to a door and unlocked it. The door opened, and Pascha stepped inside, noting as she did that the captain had not offered to escort her.

  The cell was larger than she had expected. It was five paces by five, at a guess, and was furnished with four simple beds set against the walls and a solid, well worn table in the centre. There were four men inside, and they were already on their feet, looking expectantly towards the door.

  These were certainly not comfortable quarters. The floor was stone, softened a little by straw. There was no fire, but four lamps burned in barred niches in the walls allowing enough light to read by if you sat beneath, and enough to see by for the rest of the room. The beds were wooden boxes with straw palettes laid on them. There was also a jug of water on the table, and the whole place smelt like a stable, though not unpleasantly.

  The men were swarthy, clean shaven, relatively neat in appearance. All of them were clothed in black. Apart from that they were as different as a group of men could be. One of them was tall and thin. His mouth was a grim line and his lank hair was touched with grey. He was the one that spoke.

  “Who are you?” His Afalel was thickly accented, and there was no respect in his tone. This was what she had hoped to hear, but it still irked her that he showed no deference.

  “Your only chance of freedom,” she replied.

  “Our freedom will come with final victory,” he replied.

  “That could be a long time coming,” Pascha said. “Would today be better?”

  “Who are you?” the man repeated, but this time his tone was not so arrogant. There was a sort of sly caution to it. Pascha toyed with the idea of telling them who she was. After all, she would have to display some part of her power to get them close enough to their army to carry her message. But now was not the time.

  “I need someone to carry a message to your commanders,” she said, ignoring the question.

  One of the other men asked a question in their native tongue, and the tall man snapped at him. He turned his attention back to Pascha.

  “What is the message?” he asked.

  “It is a simple one. Do you know the place that we call Fal Verdan?”

  “I know it.”

  “Your commanders and your army should be there on the last day of spring.”

  “The last day? What day is that?”

  “In nine days.”

  “It is not possible,” the tall cleanser said. “It will take us longer than that to reach our army.”

  “I can ensure that you are there in time,” Pascha replied.

  The cleanser shook his head. “Even if you can do what you say, why should we carry your message? Why should our army do as you command?”

  “The war will end on the last day of spring,” Pascha said. “It will end one way or the other at Fal Verdan.”

  The cleanser looked sceptical again. “How can you say that the war will end?” he asked. “We have many thousands of men yet in the home lands who are eager to fight in the conquest, to win their place by Seth Yarra’s side. We have the ships to carry them. The war will not end on that day unless you surrender.”

  “After that day there will be no more men, no more ships, unless you are at Fal Verdan.”

  “Nonsense. Hollow threats.”

  “Do you know the Bren, the Night Folk?”

  “I do not.”

  “Do you know of Dragons?”

  “Myths. Beasts supposedly slain by the god thousands of years ago.”

  “You may tell your commanders that we wish to speak with them, and after that, if there is no settlement they will have the opportunity to engage in battle. All our forces will be there.”

  “A final battle then?”

  “As I said, the war will end.”

  “Then I will carry your message, but who shall I say it is from?”

  “The gods of the Benetheon, The Kings and Queens of the kingdoms, the generals of their armies.”


  “And which are you?” the man asked.

  “I am the one that stands behind them all,” she replied.

  Blink.

  The world opened its eye again upon a wooded hillside. The birds were indulging in their spring serenade, the sun was shining and the air was still. It was a quite beautiful day. The cleansers, however, were unable to appreciate it. They were overcome by their sudden change of surroundings.