Runestone of Eresu

by Murphy, Shirley Rousseau

  Ram stared at Jerthon for a long solemn moment, then grinned. Jerthon’s appearance in the citadel so suddenly was like the sun coming out. Not dead, not lying wounded in some field, but strolling nonchalantly into the citadel in the middle of the service. Ram wanted to shout and throw his arms around Jerthon. He cuffed him lightly. “Your face is dirty. You could do with a bath. Was it bad in the north?”

  “Yes, bad.” There was a deep cut across Jerthon’s chin and neck. His red hair, darker than Ram’s, was pale with chalky dust. He was quiet as usual, contemplative. Had learned to be, with half his life spent in slavery to the tyrant Venniver. Had learned not to be hot-headed as Ram still was sometimes. Jerthon’s voice showed the strain of the last days. “We lost near twenty men, lost horses. The Kubalese took captives heavy in Blackcob, took men, women and children—took most of the horses roped together, and the captives made to run before them.” His jaw muscles were tight, his eyes hard. “We relied too long on the skills of Seeing, Ram, and now we are crippled without them. Our scouts saw too little, our border guards did not sense the Herebian scouts or the Herebian bands slipping in. Oh, we routed those that didn’t go riding off with captives and stolen horses before we could rally ourselves. They set on us in waves, there must have been bands from half a dozen Herebian strongholds. Raiders creeping out like rats to snatch and kill and disappear. And something—” Jerthon stared at Ram with a barely veiled slash of fear in his eyes. “Something rides with them, Ram. Something more than the dark we know, something . . . dense. Like an impossible weight on your mind so the Seeing is torn from you and your very sanity near torn from you.”

  “Yes. I know that feeling. I had it too. We all did.”

  “We must never again—never—allow our senses to be so dulled by reliance on Seeing alone. We must guard against that. We must train against it.”

  “Yes. I know we must.”

  Jerthon pushed back a lock of red hair so violently that a cloud of the white dust rose to drift in motes on the still citadel air. “I think the hordes will not march here, though I’ve given orders for double guard and for mounts kept ready.” He grew silent, as if he were drawn away. The choir’s voices rose to hit along the ceiling like the wash of sea light.

  “. . . faith then, faith in men then, faith to do then, faith to be . . .” rising higher and higher, Skeelie’s voice clearly discernible now; but now that song seemed a joke in the face of the murder Jerthon had witnessed.

  Ram hardly heard the voices that rang across the cave. He sat looking inward at his own failure. For if they had the whole runestone of Eresu in their possession, they could easily defeat the dark. That round jade sphere, which he had held in his hands, carried power enough to defeat every evil Seer in Ere.

  He had held it, seen it shatter asunder, seen its shards disappear from his open palm—seen those shards vanish out of Time into the hands of others, mysterious figures come out of Time in that instant.

  He had returned to Jerthon with one small shard of jade. That shard, that bit of the runestone, was now the only force beyond their Seer’s skills with which they could battle the dark.

  That moment would burn forever in his mind. He had felt the earth rock, felt Time warp and come together, was shaken by thunder as Time spun to become a vortex out of Time. He had stood helplessly as the stone turned white hot and shattered in his hands. And something of himself had gone then, too. He had known, since that time, an oppressive loss, a loss he did not really understand.

  He and Skeelie had come down out of the mountain Tala-charen the next morning to make their way across unknown valleys to meet Jerthon and Tayba, meet all those who had escaped from Burgdeeth and Venniver’s enslavement.

  He had placed the jade shard in Jerthon’s hand, and Jerthon had looked down at him—a tall, red-headed Seer staring down at a nine-year-old boy who had so recently seen his dreams, his hope for Ere, shatter. Jerthon had read the two runes inscribed on the jade; “Eternal—will sing,” then had looked hard at Ram. “Did it sing, Ram?”

  “If you call thunder a song. But where—the other parts . . . ?”

  “It went into Time, and that is all we can know. Now, in each age from which those Children came, Time will warp again, once, in the same way.”

  Ram stared at the choir unseeing, shutting their voices from his mind. Could he have prevented the shattering of the stone? And if he had prevented it, what would have happened differently these past twelve years?

  They had begun their journey that morning from the wild mountain lands above Burgdeeth to Carriol, and to Jerthon’s home. Carriol then was a collection of small crofts and farms, of peaceful men and women holding their freedom stubbornly against the ever-threatening Herebian bands. Joyful, vigorous men and women ready always to battle for their hard-won freedom.

  Now, twelve years later, Carriol was a nation. With the easy cooperation between the Carriolinian Seers and those who came from slavery in Burgdeeth, with an easy-open council, they had welded Carriol into a strong, cohesive country. The few crofts at the foot of the ruins had grown into a town. The ready bands that had ridden to defend neighbors’ lands had grown into four fierce, well-disciplined battalions of fighting men backed by women who were equally skillful at arms.

  And as Carriol grew stronger, the wrath of the Pellian Seers had grown. The Pellian, BroogArl, had drawn the evil Seers of all nations into an increasingly malevolent unity directed toward Carriol, a unity of dark that breathed hate poisonous as vipers upon the air of that rising free land, rose in increasing anger that Carriol was a sanctuary where men could come in need to escape the evils of the dark Seers, and that Carriol was becoming too strong to attack.

  All the political intrigue and manipulating among small-minded leaders in other countries that so increased the lack of freedom of an unwitting populace, all the atrocities done to common men for the pleasure and diversion of those leaders as their evil lust began to feed on itself—all of this was threatened if fearful serfs could escape to Carriol and be protected there.

  There had been a great, concerted effort by Ere’s dark Seers to bring all the nations but Carriol under one iron-gloved rule, one dark entity that could devour Carriol: a war-hungry giant that could crush her. The Seers of Carriol had so far prevented that, with the help of the runestone. But if they had had the whole stone, had held that great power, what more could they have done?

  Surely they would have prevented—made impossible—the burning of a Seeing child in Venniver’s fires.

  Ram glanced at Jerthon and found him scowling. He touched Jerthon’s arm, seeking for some silent contact, but caught only a fleeting sense of unease, nothing more.

  Jerthon loosed his leather tunic, looked as if he would like to pull off his boots. “Lieutenant Prail told me the winged ones pulled you out of that bloody trap in the south.” He stared at Ram. “The horses of Eresu did not come near us, we did not see them or feel their presence. It seems to me something goes on with them, but I can’t make out what—as if there is fear among them. I think that evil stalks the winged ones just as evil stalks us. Only once did we hear their voices in our minds for a moment—beseeching voices laced with fear. Then the silence returned.”

  Ram shifted, easing the strain on his wound. It itched abominably now that it had started to heal. “The golden mare who brought me had a sadness about her. Also, Jerthon, something is amiss with them, as well as with the world of men.”

  Jerthon stared across the citadel to where Skeelie stood tall in the choir, the sun striking her robe. His sister sang as if her whole soul were lifted and buoyed by the music. He said, with more heart, “I ride in a few hours to rescue the captives taken in the north; I came back only to get fresh mounts and more men. Arben’s battalion rides north of Blackcob now. They will wait for us just below the mountains, to come on the Kubalese camp from high ground. I ride south, and those few men left in Blackcob ride out direct over the hills eastward. We will come upon Kubal from three sides. But there
. . . I think there is someone in the Kubalese camp who is in sympathy with us. I had only a fleeting feel of it, but perhaps he can help us if we can summon the power to reach him. It would be good to have a spy inside to loose horses, cut saddle bands and otherwise cripple the Kubalese.”

  Ram felt a strange sense stir him, an unfamiliar excitement. He paused, feeling outward, but could make nothing of it; and it was gone so quickly. He brought himself back to Jerthon. “Yes—perhaps I know of whom you speak.” What was this pounding of his pulse? “Perhaps I know, for we have had news of Kubal . . .” And the very word Kubal seemed to speak to him in some way; but he could make nothing of it. He reached out, tried to sense whatever it was, and could not, frowned, irritated himself. “There are captives from Kubal come three days ago, brought in by wagon from Folkstone. They escaped from Burgdeeth after a child was—burned to death in Venniver’s sacrificial flames.”

  “You . . .” Jerthon stared at him. “It has begun, then. The burning has begun.”

  “Yes. What we feared has begun.” Ram looked away toward the portal. This defeat, on top all the rest, was nearly unbearable. Well, it must be told. Jerthon waited to hear. He sighed, continued.

  “The mother and the child’s two sisters escaped through the tunnel, then later were captured by the Kubalese as they dug roots in the hills. They were helped to escape Kubal by a young girl—the Kubalese leader’s daughter, they said.” And again that strange excitement swept him, a sharp sense of anticipation. “The girl is AgWurt’s daughter, but they said she brought extra food and water to them, helped them. Perhaps it is she you touched, perhaps she . . .” Why did the very mention of the girl unnerve him? “If she could help us . . .”

  “Perhaps. We can try.” Jerthon sat hunched, scowling. Then at last, “The burning of a child should never have occurred. We have waited too long. Curse the Pellian Seers, curse the blindness they put on us!”

  Ram shifted, easing his wound. “I ride tonight to carry out the plan we made long ago. I ride for Eresu to speak with the gods, to beg their help in stopping Venniver.”

  Jerthon stared at him. “With that wound? You can’t ride alone with that wound. We will go this night.”

  “You are committed to meet Arben.”

  “There are lieutenants who can—”

  Ram shook his head. “It would be foolish for us to be together. And the runestone . . .”

  “Tayba will guard the runestone well and use it if it is needed.”

  “Do you trust my mother, Jerthon, even yet? After her treachery against you in Burgdeeth?”

  Jerthon gave him a look that withered him. “That was twelve years back, lad! She has proven—since that time—her quality. You know I trust her—more than trust her. And she . . . Tayba has the most skill with the stone. A traitor, Ram—a traitor turned to love the cause he betrayed is often the steadiest of all.” He paused as the choir’s voices rose . . .

  They touch the star. The force of Waytheer

  Brings us closer, gods and men.

  Ynell’s true Children never waver,

  Though falter, Seers dark with lusting,

  Falter you.

  The voices echoed against the cadence of the pounding sea. Jerthon said quietly, “What makes us really believe the gods will help us in curbing Venniver’s lust for the burning of children?”

  “. . . Falter, Seers dark with lusting, Falter you . . .”

  “The gods must help. Even if they have never helped men except to offer sanctuary, even if their beliefs say that to help is to tamper with the natural conditions of men, still this time, Jerthon, they must! I will—somehow I will—see that they do. If—if they are truly gods they . . .”

  “I have no patience with that old discussion!” Jerthon wiped dust from his cheek with the back of his hand. “It means nothing. Anyway it makes no difference, true gods or not, they are capable of helping—if they will.”

  “. . . Falter, Seers dark with lusting, Falter you. . .”

  Jerthon looked at him for a long moment. “It is up to you, then, Ramad of wolves.”

  The last stanza died echoing inside the citadel, the last tones rising and lingering against the pounding heartbeat of the sea. Ram and Jerthon rose as one and left the citadel. Skeelie stared after them and knew from the look of them they would both be off on some wild business, and bit her lip in anger. Damn the Pellian Seers! Damn this ugly, useless, harassing, small-minded, terrifying war!

  THREE

  Ram rode out for Blackcob well before dusk. As he left the ruins, he turned in the saddle and saw Skeelie standing in a portal watching him. He waved, but wished she were not compelled to see him ride out, compelled to worry over him. She had sat with him while he ate an early meal, nagged him about his wound, as had Tayba. He turned his back on the ruins and made his way through the village. The low sun behind the stone houses made the thatched roofs shine, sent deep shadows across the cobbles. His horses’ hooves struck sharp staccato as he exchanged greetings with men and women coming in from work, from the drilling field. He could smell suppers cooking. Children flocked around his two horses, then stormed away like leaves blown. He left the town at last to pass occasional farms along the sea cliff, then soon the cliff was empty of all but the sweeping grass, the wind salt and harsh. Waves pounded up the side of the cliff bouncing spray into his face. He relished the solitude, needed this solitude to heal the sense of defeat that would not leave him, the sense of mounting disaster. The sense of wasted lives. They had lost some good men at Folkstone. He would be a long time forgetting it.

  And the attacks kept coming. Not a large, full-scale battle, but small, bedeviling attacks first in one place, then another, harassing the farmers and herders, delaying what should have been the joyful, disorderly growth of the new country; destroying crops, stealing livestock . . .

  Yes, and that was just what the Seer BroogArl intended. Delay and harassment, the wasting of Carriol’s resources, the disrupting of her peaceful pursuits, of building new craftsmen’s shops, of fencing rich pasture, breaking new farmland. All lay untended, interrupted as Carriol’s settlers went off to defend the land—and perhaps to die. Such harassment did BroogArl’s work most effectively. If it lasted long enough, Ram wondered reluctantly, could the Pellian Seers conquer Carriol?

  And something else kept nudging him, a feeling of urgency that puzzled him. His senses seemed infected by it. As if, ahead, lay not only his mission to the gods, to the valley of Eresu, but something else—something beckoning. The very air around him seemed fresh with anticipation, the wind sharper, even the sea meadows seemed brighter in spite of his sickness at the recent battle, in spite of his mourning of friends. He had no idea what made such a feeling, but the sense of anticipation refused to leave him, and the ride along the coast seemed as perfect as the songs in citadel, rich and full of subtleties, glorious with the powers of sea and wind.

  He must be growing foolish; this must be some twisting of his mind grown out of his relief at being still alive after battle. Some wild reverence for life so nearly lost.

  Even when the pack mare grew edgy, snorting and pulling back, he was more amused than disturbed. He spoke only gently to his own mount when he started to sidestep and stare at emptiness. The waning day was clear as a jewel; there was nothing to disturb them.

  They settled at last and Ram, lulled by the steady rhythm of the sea, thought with pleasure of the two-year-old colts that would be ready soon for breaking. Fine colts, near the finest yet of the new breed he and Jerthon had taken so much time with. Well-made, eager animals, sensible in battle—not like these two, gaping at nothing. Colts that would one day sire a line of the finest horses in Ere, quick, short-coupled horses, handy in battle and fast and brave in attack.

  He left the sea cliffs with reluctance to head inland, down through low-lying fog into the marsh cut by the river Somat Cul as it bowed south to meet the sea. The river was flanked here by coppery reeds, the air very still. Even the suck of hooves was silen
ced by the press of fog. The marsh smelled of decaying life and of new growth. Ahead, the fog thickened into a mass as heavy as a wall. As he approached it, the pack mare snorted and plunged wildly, and his mount went spraddle-legged, staring. A hushing sigh came from the mass of fog, then all at once, where the fog was thickest, a shape began to form.

  It was tall, seemed to swell in size until it loomed above him. Was it . . . was it winged? A winged figure? But it was too large to be a horse of Eresu. Was that a human torso rising between the great shadows of its wings? Not a god!

  It was utterly silent, did not speak into his mind as a god would. As the fog thickened further, it all but vanished, yet the frightened horses plunged and fought him so wildly it was all he could do to keep the frantic mare from pulling away.

  The figure darkened again, came clearer. Then it spoke to him. “Ramad! You are Ramad!” Its voice was hollow, void of expression or of kindness. And it spoke aloud, not in a god’s thought-language. He swallowed, waited in silence, clutching his sword and knowing a sword was useless.

  “You are Ramad of wolves, are you not! Answer me, Seer!”

  Ram did not answer, did not move.

  “Afraid to speak, cowardly Seer? Well, hear me then! You pursue an unworthy mission, Ramad of wolves! You ride sniveling like a baby to whimper before gods! Ignorant mortal, would you lay the troubles of men before gods to solve?” Then the creature laughed, a terrifying, rasping thunder that echoed through the fog.

  Ram fought it with his mind, tried with Seer’s powers to reduce it to the fog from which it must have formed, fought uselessly, all his skills unable to turn aside the dark being. It swelled larger, and the mist around it seethed, and it screamed at him, “Turn back, Seer! Turn back from your precarious quest lest you destroy the very cause you so covet!”