The Spirit Stone

by Katharine Kerr

  The shaft spun, the hook leapt off the wire, the first bolt sprang from the bellybow and arched up into the air. It whistled as it flew across and smudged the blue sky with black smoke, while the Gel da’ Thae manning the walls turned their heads to watch. Larn began cranking up a second bolt as the first started its curve down, heading for tower window. Larn released the second bolt. Grosh positioned a third. In the fortress the Horsekin stayed dead-silent, as if they were puzzled rather than frightened. The first bolt struck the tower with such force that the wood structure quivered. For the briefest of moments nothing happened; then the mixture in the bolt exploded.

  Little fingers of bright gold stroked the tower wall as the bitumen melted and ran, burning. First smoke curled, then flames leapt along the boards. The second bolt slammed into the flames and instantly shattered into a spew of fire. The last bolt flew and hit. With a roar the entire top third of the tower caught and burst into flames. An answering roar went up from the Deverry army as Alshandra’s enormous banner flashed into a solid sheet of fire. Howls of panic from the Horsekin rose with the black smoke.

  ‘Yes!’ Larn threw both hands in the air and yelled in Dwarvish. ‘It works! It works!’

  ‘Well done, Weaponmaster!’ Brel began to laugh for what must have been the first time in fifty years. ‘Oh, splendidly well done! We’ll avenge them all! Every last one of our dead! They’ll be avenged!’

  Inside the fortress brass horns squealed and squalled. Pieces of the tower broke free and fell, scattering flame as they went. More screams, more yells—Kov could imagine the panic inside: slaves running to and fro with buckets of water, others beating at the flames with shovels, the rakzanir milling around, screeching futile orders.

  ‘It’ll be hard work, dousing that fire,’ Prince Voran said. ‘But they have copious wells, unfortunately.’

  ‘Let’s hope they try to use water, your highness,’ Kov said. ‘The stuff just floats to the top, you see, and goes on burning.’

  For a while it seemed that the entire fortress might burn from this one attack. The princes and lords began shouting at their own men to arm and get ready for a fight should the Horsekin sally to escape the fire. The last chunks of the wooden tower collapsed and crumbled below the level of the walls with a belch of black, greasy smoke that streamed up and arched over the river. Sparks flared, then died, within the cloud. A few fell on the wet Deverry encampment, only to hiss and go out. The cloud, however, enveloped them with the stench of burning brimstone. Coughing and choking, the princes and gwerbret ran to join their men.

  The smoke began to clear almost immediately. The cries of the horns and the shouts of the Horsekin died away. Kov assumed that someone inside had figured out how to smother the flames with dirt rather than aggravating them with water. Up on Zakh Gral’s walls the helmets of its guards returned, black with ash.

  The little door beside the gates swung open. Minaz the herald appeared, waving his staff.

  ‘Worked like a charm,’ Brel muttered—then realized what he’d just said. ‘Luck, that’s all that blasted storm was! Couldn’t be dweomer, just couldn’t.’

  Larn, Grosh, and the sappers ignored him—militantly.

  Tricked out with his wolfskin and drum, Salamander hurried after Indar and Maelaber as they went to meet the Gel da’ Thae herald. Minaz smelled of smoke, and a layer of ash dusted his stiff reddish mane, but he stood proudly, his head thrown back, as they greeted him.

  ‘We have an offer to make your princes,’ Minaz said. ‘We will give you all our slave women and a tribute of gold if you’ll withdraw from our lands. We have a hundredweight of gold as you reckon weight. Load it upon your carts and leave us in peace.’

  ‘We don’t want tribute,’ Indar said. ‘Your goddess wishes her devout women to live long lives so that they may spread her teachings. We are offering them the opportunity to do so because we believe that helpless women should not die for the sins of their menfolk. We offer your priestesses as well as your slave women refuge and life.’

  ‘The priestesses perhaps might be persuaded to leave. And the gold? Is a hundredweight not enough?’

  ‘We are not here for plunder. We ask you to flee Zakh Gral so we may finish burning it to the ground without burning you with it. And we demand you stop the raids on our farmlands.’

  Maelaber stepped forward. ‘Prince Daralanteriel adds this message: we will not tolerate a dagger laid against our throat. Zakh Gral must be the last fortress you ever build upon the Galan Targ.’

  Minaz considered. The young bard drummed out a restless rhythm with his long fingers while he turned his eyeless face this way and that. Salamander broke into chant, reciting the few lines that he could remember, in Elvish, of ‘The Burning of the Vale of Roses’. When Minaz raised his staff, Salamander fell silent, and the bard followed his example.

  ‘I hear Ranadar’s name on the lips of your bard,’ Minaz said. ‘The message is clear. I shall tell the rakzanir of your demands.’

  Bard and herald retreated, a little too fast for dignity, back to the fortress. Both Indar and Maelaber glared at Salamander.

  ‘The message, or so I’d guess, is that we want vengeance,’ Salamander said. ‘Their ancestors burned Ranadar’s city to the ground and slaughtered everyone they could grab, too, women, babies, the lot.’

  ‘The sentiment’s appropriate enough.’ Indar considered him with pursed lips. ‘Next time, however, do warn me before you chant somewhat with so much meaning.’

  They returned to their own lines and commanders. While Indar gave his report, Salamander stood off to one side with Grallezar.

  ‘May I ask you somewhat?’ Salamander said to her.

  ‘You may, though I may not answer.’

  ‘Minaz the herald—you knew him before?’

  ‘I did. He were a man loyal to Braemel many years ago, and at that time he did court me. Almost did I marry him, but my mother, may she have rest in the Deathworld, did forbid it. At the time, I did weep, but I see now that she were right. He be a person of weak character, if he’d turn traitor to his city.’

  When Indar finished, Prince Voran called Grallezar to his side to join the council. Salamander sat down on the ground, but he’d barely got comfortable when Minaz and the bard appeared in front of Zakh Gral and signalled for another parley. Once again the two heralds and Salamander hurried out to neutral ground.

  ‘The rakzanir say that they will send out the women,’ Minaz said, ‘if your princes will let us fight and die like men. Take the women away. Then let us sally before you attempt to burn the fortress.’

  ‘And the rest of the terms?’ Indar said.

  ‘Our rakzanir cannot speak for every Gel da’ Thae warrior in our lands. If you win this battle, you may rest assured that none of the men here will ever raid your farms again. Never have I heard of a man coming back from the dead to swing his sabre once more. If you lose, then we shall see. The future is a very dark place, good herald. No man can peer into it and insist he has seen clearly what dwells inside.’

  ‘That is very true.’ Indar smiled with thin lips. ‘I shall tell the princes what you’ve said here.’

  Before the commanders and the rakzanir agreed on terms, the heralds went back and forth three more times. At last, when the sun hung well past its zenith, Minaz announced that the women would be coming out as soon as they could gather their possessions together. By then Salamander was trembling from the twin exhaustions of fear and hope. Soon he would see Rocca—if all went well, if the Horsekin refrained from some quick treachery. As he followed the heralds back to the front lines, he staggered and nearly fell. Maelaber grabbed him to steady him.

  ‘Take off the wolfskin!’ Grallezar ran out to meet them. ‘The day’s heat be troubling you. Your face, it be red as sunset.’

  Salamander did just that, then allowed her to lead him, because he was nearly as blind as the Gel da’ Thae bard from heat stroke. She fetched water in a leather bucket and handed him a dipper. He sat on the ground and drank
as much water as he could get down, then poured the rest over his head. As his vision cleared, he looked around and realized that the men were arming and rushing past to saddle their horses.

  ‘What is this?’ Salamander said. ‘Is the battle going to start right now?’

  ‘Nah, nah, nah, or so we do hope.’ Grallezar smiled, all fangs. ‘Your princes, they be wise not to trust the rakzanir, so the army does go on alert. I think me, though, that the Gel da’ Thae inside Zakh Gral will make the Horsekin keep their word.’

  Salamander felt well enough to rejoin the heralds at the call for another parley. Maelaber was helping Salamander put on the wolfskin when a young Deverry man came trotting up to fling himself down to a kneel in front of Indar. A skinny lad, neither handsome nor ugly, with thick brown hair slicked back from his forehead, he wore no mail or helm, nor did he carry a sword.

  ‘Please, good herald,’ he said, ‘a boon!’

  ‘What’s all this?’ Indar said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Tarro, my lord. I ride for Gwerbret Ridvar, but I disarmed so I could go with you—well, if you allow it. I think my sister might be one of the slave women. We lived out on the Great West Road, the village they burned early this summer.’

  ‘I see,’ Indar said. ‘Very well, then, come along.’

  ‘My humble thanks, my lord.’ Tarro got up. ‘I can’t bear waiting. She’s the only kin I’ve got left in the world.’

  Salamander could understand how the waiting would eat at Tarro. He was feeling the same sharp teeth himself. Out in the neutral ground the two heralds stood with staves upraised until, after what seemed hours, the little door of the fortress swung open. Minaz stepped out, staff held high. As he walked to meet them, a long line of women followed, led by High Priestess Lakanza and the two Gel da’ Thae priestesses, all of them as grave and stately as if they were leading some holy procession on one of Alshandra’s festival days. But where was Rocca? Salamander rose on tip-toe, looking frantically up and down the straggling line of slave women in their dirty dresses.

  All at once Tarro whooped in triumph and rushed forward. A brown-haired skinny girl broke out of line and ran to him, threw herself into his arms, and burst out sobbing. She was no more than a lass, Salamander realized, certainly no more than twelve summers old if that.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ she kept saying, ‘I knew you’d come for me.’

  All Tarro could do was stroke her cropped-off hair as he wept with her. Minaz was watching the pair with a puzzled frown.

  ‘His sister,’ Indar said with some asperity. ‘Do such kin ties matter among you?’

  ‘They do, and most deeply.’ Minaz paused to clear his throat. ‘Did you think perhaps they did not? I merely wondered what relation the lass might be to him.’

  Indar and his Gel da’ Thae counterpart looked at each other for a long stony moment. The thin web of civility among heralds stretched close to breaking; then Minaz turned away with a shrug. ‘These are all the women in the dun who would leave,’ he said. ‘Have you any messages for my rakzanir?’

  By then the crowd of rescued women had hurried on past. Salamander spun around with Minaz’s words burning in his soul: all the women who would leave. He saw no sign of Rocca anywhere he looked. He desperately wanted to run after them, to find Lakanza and beg her to tell him where Rocca might be, but he still had a role to play in the complex exchanges between the heralds. Although Zakh Gral’s women might be safe, the lives of the men in both armies still stood at the edge of death’s cliff. Honour demanded that terms be discussed, and threats exchanged, and more terms offered, even though every man there knew that words would never turn aside the battle.

  By the time they’d finished, the sun hung just above the horizon. Salamander and the heralds hurried back to their lines to find the men still fully armed and ready, sitting on the ground beside their horses. While the heralds rushed off to talk with the commanders, Salamander lagged behind, wondering if he’d be required to stay. Wearing his mail shirt and sword belt, but carrying his helm, Gerran came to meet him.

  ‘Go back to camp,’ he said. ‘I already sent Clae back. Take care of him if I fall, will you?’

  ‘I will, but I’ll pray you don’t.’

  They clasped hands for what might have been the last time. When a servant brought his horse, Salamander mounted up and rode off. A hundred yards or so away he turned in the saddle and looked back to see Gerran standing in the road, one hand upraised in farewell, his red hair like a beacon in the sunset.

  Salamander reached the camp just as twilight was thickening into a hot summer night. Midges swarmed as he turned his horse over to servants and strode among the clusters of tents. Here and there little fires bloomed, and by their light he could see people eating or talking in low voices. Salamander searched until he found Clae, sitting by a fire with Grallezar.

  ‘Ah, there you be!’ Grallezar said. ‘Come eat.’

  ‘I need to go talk with the high priestess first.’ Salamander’s stomach growled audibly. ‘Save me some bread, will you?’

  ‘I will,’ Clae said. ‘They put the holy women in that big tent over there. I can tell the guards to let you in.’

  ‘Better yet, ask one to come in with me,’ Salamander said. ‘These women have reason to hate me, after all.’

  Inside the tent a cluster of candles stood on the hearthstone underneath the smokehole. Among their little heaps of belongings, the priestesses and their maidservants sat huddled on the floor cloth, except for Lakanza. Someone had brought a wooden crate for the high priestess, who perched on top of a folded blanket placed on the crate to pad it. Near her feet sat a tall, rangy Deverry woman with dirty red hair. At the sight of Salamander and the guard, the Deverry woman rose to her knees and scowled. The rest of the priestesses got up and made a show of turning their backs on Salamander before they sat down again, as far away as possible. Lakanza leaned forward and laid a gentle hand on the red-haired woman’s arm.

  ‘It be all right, Mauva,’ Lakanza said. ‘I fain would speak with Evan.’

  ‘Mauva?’ Salamander said. ‘Are you Neb’s aunt?’

  ‘Not any more. I was his uncle’s wife, sure enough,’ the red-haired woman said. ‘Now I’ve got me a better life.’ She glanced at Lakanza in wet-eyed adoration. ‘Her holiness showed me the way.’

  Lakanza leaned forward and murmured a few words too softly for Salamander to hear. Mauva nodded, then got up and went to join the other women at the far side of the tent. The guard stood by the door, one hand on the hilt of his sword, while Salamander knelt beside the high priestess.

  ‘I came to ask you to forgive me,’ Salamander said. ‘I had to defend my people against your warleaders, or I’d never have betrayed you. We’re not Vandar’s spawn, your holiness. We’re just mortals like you and yours. I swear it to you.’

  Lakanza considered him unspeaking, her dark eyes bright and thoughtful despite the web of wrinkles that surrounded them.

  ‘I can’t find Rocca,’ he went on. ‘Why didn’t she come out with the rest of you?’

  ‘Truly, be you surprised?’ Lakanza’s voice wavered close to tears. ‘All her trust she does put in Alshandra, to protect her and our holy relics both, or, if she wills it, then to die in the shrine. The two dragons be here, I see, and your dwarves do use evil magic against us, so methinks it be the last war at the ending of the world, just as prophecy do tell us.’

  ‘It’s not, your holiness. It’s merely a strike by my people against those who’ve slaughtered our allies like sheep.’

  ‘No doubt your prince of darkness told you such. There be no need upon it to be true. Now, you answer me somewhat. Since you be not taken to her country, how then did you escape the tower? Were it witchery?’

  ‘It was, Your Holiness. There was no miracle.’

  Lakanza said nothing, her wrinkled hands flaccid in her lap, and stared off into empty air. At length she sighed and shook her head. ‘It does ache my heart the worst of all, that I were so unfa
ir to our Sidro. She did try to warn me in hints and suchlike that you be a witchman, but in my pride I listened not. Be you a mazrak, then?’

  ‘I am, Your Holiness. I tricked you into imprisoning me in the tower, and then I flew away.’

  ‘Evan, Evan! End your evil ways, I do beg you, before it be too late. Be not asking me for forgiveness! Ask her, and she will give it. You’d not be here on your knees before me if in your heart you knew not how evil a thing this witchery be.’

  ‘There’s naught evil about the dweomer. That’s not what aches my heart. It’s that I betrayed you and Rocca both.’

  ‘What of that omen in the black stone? Rocca did see a frightful vision there. A picture did appear of our goddess in the sky, but then she were torn to pieces by invisible beasts. She did die above a ford, while below the Lijik army did cheer and gloat. Were it you who did send it to torment us?’

  ‘What? I didn’t! Never would I mock you that way, never! Please believe me.’

  ‘I do believe you.’ Lakanza considered for a moment, then sighed. ‘Who sent it, I know not, mayhap Vandar himself, but it gladdens my very soul that you be innocent of it. I do think me, Evan, that someday your true heart will speak, and then you’ll be coming back to us, where you belong. I’ll pray to our goddess to make it so.’

  Salamander looked up at her face, at her dark eyes, so concerned, so genuinely kind, so deeply worried about him and his soul, despite the doom he’d brought to her people in the fortress—and to Rocca, as well. He tried to speak, then wept, sobbing like a child, while she laid both hands on his head and blessed him.

  ‘Lakanza’s safe in the Ancients’ camp,’ Laz said. ‘I told you they wouldn’t kill an old woman. So are your other sisters in Alshandra, as far as I could tell, anyway.’