The Pity Stone (Book 3)

by Tim Stead

  Tilian did not know if it was because of that chance encounter, or if he would have been there anyway, but on the last day of spring, early in the morning he found himself standing on the wall to greet the dawn, rubbing shoulders with the old blood of the kingdoms. There was not a man on the wall without some form of title. But he had no eyes for his fellow lords. He looked out, beyond the wall.

  The sight before him was bizarre indeed.

  A hundred paces from the gate there was a table. It was within bowshot from both sides. The table was covered with a white cloth, and white banners fluttered either side of it. There were seven seats set on either side of the table. It looked as though someone intended to breakfast on the killing grounds.

  During the night the second seventh friend had come up with Queen Hestia’s Telans and arrayed themselves outside the wall, and the great gates were open.

  It had been stealthily done, for certain. The Seth Yarra had no inkling until the dawn showed it to them. There was a great scrambling around the enemy camp, and much shouting that carried even to the top of the wall.

  It was an impressive sight, he had to admit it. The men outside the gates, even the horses, stood quiet and still. Their armour glittered. The points of lances glinted by every horse, banners rolled in the morning wind, the gold and green of Telas, the red and brown that Skal had adopted for his regiment.

  There was a stamping below him. The men before the gate withdrew to either side in precision, five steps each, revealing the open way to the enemy, and between their ranks Tilian could see the great lords of the kingdoms walking out.

  The Sparrow led the way, her red hair bound severely back in a queue. She wore white and green, a broad sleeved shirt that caught the wind in an echo of the white banners, cotton trousers, black boots to the knee. She carried no sword of dagger, no bow, no weapon of any kind.

  Behind her came a group of four. Tilian recognised Duke Quinnial at once. His walk was distinctive because of his crippled arm strapped to his right side. The Duke, too, was unarmed and dressed as though for a banquet. There was no glint of metal, no scabbard, no helm. He was all silks and satins. At his side walked Prince Havil. Tilian had met Havil just the once, but the big man was easy to recognise, even from above and behind. His broad shoulders were covered by a heavy white cloak that flapped to one side. There was a woman with them, hidden from sight by the robes of a Durander mage. She could have been seventeen or seventy for all he could see. She waked silently with her hands folded before her. The fourth was a man he did not know, but it could be none other that King Pridan of Afael.

  As they walked they were joined by another woman who stepped out from the ranks of the Telans. This must be Queen Hestia, Tilian thought, though she looked far younger than he expected.

  They walked, almost casually, to the table. Tilian could see Havil talking to the Afaeli king, waving his hands about to emphasize some point. The Sparrow kept her eyes on the Seth Yarra, and Queen Hestia glanced back more than once towards her own people, or perhaps at the Seventh Friend.

  They took their seats on the near side of the table and waited.

  It struck Tilian at once that one of the seats was unoccupied; seven seats and six people. It was the seat next to The Sparrow, on her right.

  It was for The Wolf. Of course it was. Tilian wondered where he was.

  Nothing happened for a long time. The table and the ranks of soldiers and the people at the table seemed to have taken the Seth Yarra by surprise. Tilian looked over the wall and to his amazement saw Lord Skal standing below and not twenty feet to his right. He looked up again to make sure he wasn’t going to miss anything, but there was no sign of an organised response from the enemy, and so he slipped away from his place on the wall and excused his way past the nobility crowded on the platform until he came to the steps.

  He rushed down and made his way to the gate. The pass was full of soldiers, cavalry lined up for half a mile, twelve horses wide, infantry to the sides, but the gate was relatively clear. Colonel Tragil, the Berashi commander of the wall was standing next to the rope that held the gate up, a hand casually on the hilt of his dagger. The sight of it made Tilian smile.

  “Colonel, may I pass?” he asked.

  “Through the gate? By all means, Captain. Every man and his dog seem to go through these days without a word to me.” He seemed exasperated as much as anything, even bemused.

  Tilian didn’t tarry. He slipped through the gate and worked his way along the wall through the tight lines of soldiers. These men were his own regiment, technically, though he’d never fought along side them. Many of them seemed to know him however, and a wave of salutes and smiles followed his progress. It reminded him that he was supposed to be a hero, but he didn’t feel like one now. He was more afraid than he had been in any battle.

  As he drew closer he saw Lord Skal turn to see what the commotion was.

  “Tilian?” Skal’s smile was as broad as any of them. He stepped forwards and took Tilian’s hand. “Lord Tilian,” he said, shaking his head. “Who would have thought that a year ago?”

  “You heard then?”

  “Aye, and well deserved if the stories we hear are true, and since the Sparrow told us, they must be.”

  “I’ll not argue with that one,” Tilian said. The words he wanted to speak burned in his mouth, but perhaps this was not the time. He was very aware of the soldiers crowded around them. Fifty men would hear him if he spoke now.

  “So you met the king?” Skal asked. “In Golt?”

  “We did,” Tilian agreed. “He seemed a good man, though the delay did not help. We barely got to Bas Erinor in time.”

  “But you did. When this is over we must sit down and hear each other’s tales. I want to hear every detail.”

  “It will be my pleasure to tell you, Lord Skal, but we have heard very little of your own campaign, and there will be a greater hunger for those tales.”

  “Perhaps,” Skal looked up and across towards the table. There was some hint among the Seth Yarra ranks that their response was forthcoming.

  “I have a question for you, Lord Skal,” Tilian plunged into it, knowing that the moment was slipping away.

  “A question? Ask it.”

  He swallowed. He could feel his face colouring. He felt foolish, but he had determined on this course of action, and he would stick with it.

  “The Lady Sara Brough,” he said. “She is your blood kin and under your protection,” he began.

  “She is.”

  “May I have your permission to court her with a view to marriage?”

  Skal stared at him. “Now? You ask this now?” He turned his head again. There was definitely something happening among the Seth Yarra, soldiers were moving aside and a group of men were emerging from among them.

  “Yes,” Tilian said.

  “Couldn’t it wait?”

  “No. It is the most important question in the world.”

  Skal’s full attention was on him now, and Tilian wondered if he still wanted Sara for himself. That was what he feared most of all. But Skal smiled, and his smile broadened slowly until finally he laughed out loud.

  “Of course it is,” he said. “Not only do you have my permission Lord Tilian, you have my blessing and good wishes. Now that your question is asked and answered let us watch, because I promise you that you will see the most amazing things today, and you will want to remember them to your children.”

  Tilian’s heart was light, and he could not stop smiling, but he turned and looked and saw a column of seven men marching across the killing ground towards the table. They were all dressed in black.

  Sixty Three – Pascha

  Pascha watched them come. Seven cleansers, who at least had the decency to leave their swords behind, if not their armour. They walked slowly, taking their time and examining the deployment of troops and the open gate as they came. The man in the lead was not young, and his black clothing was decorated with silver – a brooch on the cloak, an emb
lem of some kind on his breastplate half concealed. He was, she guessed, their commander.

  They came on until they stood behind the chairs. Pascha saw the older man looking hard at the empty seat beside her. He sat down opposite, and there was an empty seat on his side also.

  “You wanted to talk?” the Seth Yarra demanded.

  “It seemed the kind thing to do,” Pascha replied. She nodded at the seat. “You should have brought eight. We expect another to join us shortly.”

  The Commander looked up at the wall lined with nobility, though he could not see who or what they were from this distance. “We will leave it empty in honour of the one god,” he said. Pascha couldn’t make up her mind if it was a deliberate insult or simply customary usage. Best not to leave it unchallenged, just in case.

  She reached down and picked up the helmet she had removed from Fashmanion and crashed it down on the table in front of the empty Seth Yarra seat.

  “Best mark it with his helm, then,” she said.

  One or two of the cleanser’s blanched at the sight, but the general just smiled. “A good imitation,” he said.

  “If that thought comforts you…”

  “And you bring cripples to speak for you,” he went on with a dismissive nod in the direction of Quinnial.

  Quinnial hardly seemed to have heard his words. He just continued to stare at the general. Pascha decided that she should be offended, but she would turn everything against this arrogant man. She spoke to Quinnial.

  “He’s right, Duke Quinnial,” she said. “Please stand.” The duke looked shocked, his face pale, his mouth a thin line. He stood somewhat reluctantly and turned to face her. “I should have done this a long time ago,” she said. Her mage blade flamed into her hand and she slashed once, cutting through all the bindings that held Quinnial’s arm to his side, setting the crippled limb free. The Duke stumbled back a step.

  “Your arm is healed, Duke Quinnial. You may use it again, and you will find that it remembers its use well. All those skills that you should have had, were it not for your unfortunate fall, have been gifted to you.”

  He stared at her, then raised his right hand in front of his face and gazed at it as though it were made of gold and decorated with the most excessive jewels. He flexed the fingers. He made a fist.

  “By the gods, Eran, I thank you for this,” he said. He made to kneel, but Pascha seized his arm and prevented him from doing so.

  “I do not require it,” she said. “How many times must I say so?”

  Quinnial turned his back on the Seth Yarra and faced the wall. He held up both hands in an exultant gesture and shook them above his head. A cheer erupted from the watching Avilians, and was taken up by others.

  “You think I am impressed?” the general asked. “A facsimile of a helmet and a man who was never a cripple in the first place? You’ll have to do better.”

  Pascha turned back to the man. If he was not impressed then he was alone, the other six seemed distinctly uncomfortable. She had not looked at them before, not closely, but now that she did she saw that one of them was her messenger from Bel Arac, the tall, rangy cleanser who had led that group. He did not meet her eyes, but looked down at the table.

  “I am not trying to impress you,” Pascha said. “What is your name?”

  “I am Lassin, son of Gerond, General of this army. You?”

  “I am Pascha Lammeling,” she replied.

  “And what are you?” Lassin asked.

  “I am what I am, general,” she said. “Allow me to introduce these others…” She named each of those seated on her side of the table, giving them their full ranks and titles. The Seth Yarra general studied each in turn, but did not speak. When she had finished he glanced at his own officers, left and right, but made no effort to introduce them.

  “Why are we here?” he asked. “Do you wish to surrender?”

  “Not at all,” Pascha replied. “We are here to save your people from destruction.”

  The general made a point of looking over his shoulder at the vast army arrayed behind him. They certainly did not look in need of saving. It was the largest army she had ever seen, but it would not remain so.

  “My people?” the general asked. “You mean my army?” He arched an eyebrow.

  “No, Lassin, I mean you people. The families you left behind.”

  “How could you possibly harm them?”

  “Do you have hearing difficulties?” Pascha asked.

  Lassin sat stony faced for a moment. “I’ve had enough of this,” he said. “We’re wasting time.” He made to stand, but could not. He pushed back at the chair, but it would not move, and when he placed his hands on the table he could not free them again.

  “What…?”

  Pascha gestured and his voice was silenced. One of the other cleansers stood up and reached for a sword that wasn’t there, but Pascha’s messenger waved him back down again with a sharp movement of his hand.

  “You have silenced my general,” he said.

  “He was going to get you all killed,” Pascha replied. “He is a fool.”

  Sixty Four – Kalik

  Kalik was afraid. His rank and his knowledge had earned him a place at this parley table, but he was beginning to regret it. Lassin, had named each act the red haired woman had performed a trick, but Kalik did not agree. Nor had he missed the title given to her by the one she called a duke.

  Eran.

  He wished that he had Boran by his side. A little learning would be useful here. He was sure that he had read some mention of ‘Eran’ somewhere, but he could not remember it. It was old, though. It meant something.

  He glanced across at his fellow cleansers. They were all men of war, with barely a nod in the direction of learning between them. He did not think that the war leaders of the enemy would be so limited, and at the same time he knew that this was a blasphemous thought.

  “Will my brothers permit me to speak?” he asked. The other cleansers indicated their assent. He could see fear in their eyes – a reflection of his own. Only the general had denied it. They were keen to have another take the burden. Now it was his. The red haired woman, Pascha Lammeling she had named herself, was waiting, watching him.

  “Eran,” he said. “It is an ancient title.” This was a bluff, a guess. He wanted her to think he understood more than he did.

  “It is,” she agreed. He’d hoped for more, for a clue.

  “What is it that you want from us?” he asked. Again, he was hoping to get her to talk. He was almost embarrassed by his ignorance. How could it be that they knew nothing about these people?

  She smiled. Apparently he had said the right thing. He felt a little of the tension fade from around the table.

  “What is your name, cleanser?” she asked. “I neglected to ask it when last we met.”

  “I am Kalik,” he replied. “My rank is Septrian.”

  “Well then, Septrian Kalik, what I want from you, from all of you, is to listen to what we have to say. You have all been lied to, and the truth that you hear today may yet save many lives.”

  “Your lives?” he asked. Almost at once he regretted the combative nature of the question. He knew it was not her life that was under threat here.

  “This helm,” she gestured at the metal head before the empty seat. “It is no imitation. I took it from one who pretended to be your god. His name was Fashmanion. He was one of us.”

  One of the other cleansers spoke. “He was not a man. I saw him. He did things that cannot be done.”

  “No, he was not a man,” Pascha agreed. “He was a Benetheon god.”

  The cleanser who had interrupted shook his head. “He spoke our language – even the high tongue. He knew our customs, our ways as though they were his own.”

  “He studied you for four hundred years,” she said. “Even a dunce could master such things in four centuries, and Fashmanion was no dunce.”

  “But…”

  “Did he heal the sick?” she demanded. The cle
anser shook his head. “Did he do anything that Wolf Narak did not do? You all know the Wolf.” Again the man shook his head. He looked down at the table. “Did he ever face the Wolf,” she asked. Her tone was softer now.

  “No he did not,” the cleanser said, and there was bitterness in his voice.

  “Yet with that one conflict the war could have been decided. I know why he did not fight Narak. Narak would have killed him. None of us would willingly face Narak with a blade in his hand.”