Runestone of Eresu

by Murphy, Shirley Rousseau

  They turned as one to look off toward the north’s uncharted mountains where the wolf bell dwelt and where the son of Ramad stalked and swore, fettered by his own fury against full use of the stones he carried. And all time and all evils and all forms of goodness came together into a wholeness for them. A pale dog wolf raised his muzzle and howled. A dark brother joined him, and another. A bitch wolf screamed into the hot desert wind. The band’s cry sent a chill across the high desert that made rock hares freeze in their tracks and lone miners pull their doors to and bolt them.

  And suddenly the band leaped away running hard for the rim and for the lands below it.

  *

  A pale, white-haired child heard their cry like wonderful music and watched them leave the desert. When she turned back toward her small valley at last, she walked swiftly and did not pause until she had curled into her bed beneath the crystal dome and held once more in her small hand the heavy talisman she kept always with her. Now, soon, they would come, a Seer would come searching for the stone. A Seer of light? Or a dark Seer? She could not yet divine which. The dark Seer might kill her, but such a one could not take the stone.

  Would the other white-haired ones come now?

  She prayed for the salvation of Ere, prayed until at last a vision of the Luff’Eresi came to her like cascading light through the crystal dome, their forms glinting through the heavy crystal panes as if the dome existed not at all, tall, iridescent beings seeming half man, half horse, but more wonderful than either, creatures whose great wings shed rainbow light; and she thought of them as gods though they were not; and she spoke to them as she would to gods.

  “Will you help them?” she whispered. “Will you help them now?”

  We do not know. They must help themselves.

  But even with that vague answer she felt eased; and long after they had left her, she lay dreaming contentedly, the heavy green jade clutched tight in her small, pale fist.

  *

  A few remnants of the Zandourian army escaped the dragon and fell back under cover of darkness to restore what was left of their decimated battalions. Scouts slipped away to outlying farms to gather reinforcements, though new soldiers would be very young, for the young were all that were left. New horses would be half-wild colts, or old and stiff. And food was growing short, weapons in short supply.

  It was past midnight and cold when they knew the dragon had left Zandour at last—surely to bring destruction elsewhere. Winged horses lay dead in a heartrending loss that made men mourn them, sick with agony. The disheartened troops huddled, tending wounds, burying their dead. In far-flung towns, RilkenDal’s officers tethered their winged mounts and bound their wings so they could not fly away, then forced the townsfolk to build up fires and bring drink and food and pleasures, and soon they were laughing and drunk and sacking what little was left of farms and homes.

  Five of Zandour’s seven Seers lay dead.

  *

  The dragon moved through watery moonlight licking blood from his lips. Kish, astride him, was silent, heavy with the satisfaction of killing. He swept soundlessly above Aybil, then down over Farr toward where Kish’s cults were camped. “Go to the dark tower,” Kish said. “My leaders will come to me there.” Both, replete with battle, wanted little more now than a light sleep, perhaps a few moments of mutual pleasure. But suddenly Kish stiffened. Her excitement surged, she could feel Dracvadrig’s senses come alert as he reached out to increase control of the girl. For the girl had gone alone—of her own volition—into the citadel and was very close now to taking the stone. They could see her figure, thin and wispy in the moonlight where she stood beside the granite table, staring at the runestone.

  Dracvadrig shook off the last vestiges of the drug with effort and brought his power around the girl, enticing her, cajoling her until at last, at last they watched her lift the stone and begin to strip away the gold thread from which it hung. But then almost at once she faltered, hesitated, nearly dropped the stone. Kish sighed impatiently. Dracvadrig strained, pouring his will into her, forcing her until all reluctance was swept away at last, until aggression replaced that reluctance.

  She jerked the gold cord away, and clutching the stone, she ran the length of the citadel to the portal and to the balcony there. The mare who waited ducked her head as Meatha leaped astride digging in her heels, then the winged creature swept out into the wind, lifting, banking across the heavy wind to turn westward, coming back over the land; but coming too slowly, hesitating now, reluctant. And Meatha in turn, at the mare’s reluctance, began again to grow hesitant.

  Dracvadrig eased the girl’s mind, soothed her, brought her on toward Pelli artfully until at last she crouched between the mare’s wings complacent in her righteousness, lulled by the knowledge that she alone would save Ere. She urged the mare on with authority, pressed her on in spite of the mare’s stubbornness. And as Dracvadrig lured the girl, he began at the same time to circle Aybil’s dark tower. The stone was theirs now. Soon they would have the second stone. Soon all of Ere would lie at their feet. Already Zandour was done for, and next Pelli would fall, then Farr, Aybil, Sangur. And then—then they would destroy Carriol, with greatest pleasure.

  Dracvadrig came down atop the broken tower. His reaching feet knocked away broken stone walls so stone tumbled and clattered onto the old iron bed in the top room of the tower, open now to the sky. More stone fell into the black lake from which the tower rose. Along the shore of the lake, the cults slept peacefully.

  *

  Zephy and Thorn, restless, shaken by the vision of Zandour, slept at last, but for what seemed only moments before the winged ones near camp spoke to them. Thorn felt Zephy stir. He rose and lit the lamp. She stared up at him vaguely, her brown eyes huge with sleep, then roused herself and sat up. She had been dreaming of Meatha. She shared the disturbing vision with him, but it fled quickly before the urgent voices of the winged ones. The dragon comes. The warrior queen comes. The dragon sits atop the tower like a buzzard, the dragon that killed our brothers.

  They Saw the dragon hunched atop the tower. It must wait until dawn. Thorn said. I would battle it in daylight, not in darkness. Even with the Seeing, not in darkness.

  Yes, the winged ones said, it will sleep now. See, it is turning itself back into a man. It will lie with the woman there, and we will keep watch.

  Zephy let the vision of the dragon go. She felt the more urgent vision was with Meatha. She let it flood her mind once more. Thorn felt her distress, took her hand, and sat calmly and silently sorting until at last he had joined her in the vision, knew her alarm as she watched the mare Michennann wing through the night sky, heading straight for Pelli, Meatha sitting straight and tense between her beating wings. “What is she . . .” Zephy began. “What does she carry? What . . . ?”

  “The stone!” Thorn said with sudden conviction, gripping her hand so tightly she winced. “Zephy, she has the stone, she has taken it from the citadel.”

  “The runestone? But she can’t, she—”

  He stood up and hung the lamp from the tentpole. Light caught across his red hair, across his bare chest. He looked down at her, still scowling with disbelief and anger.

  “The master Seer would never let her,” she said stupidly. “Never send one alone . . .” She did not want to believe what he was telling her. She looked up at him until at last she had to believe. She tried to touch Meatha’s mind and to know Meatha’s intent.

  She could sense great calmness from Meatha, a sense of lightness, a sure, purposeful feeling that what she was doing was necessary and right, was essential to the salvation of Ere. She Saw truth in Meatha’s purpose: She knew well enough that the master Seers would never let the stone leave Carriol—knew in this moment so close with Meatha, that to carry the stone into battle, to wield it in battle, as Ramad of the wolves had once done, and with it vanquish the Kubalese troops and their dark companions, might be the only sure way to stop the slaughter and to destroy Kubal. She felt uneasy at the theft of the
stone, but she felt with Meatha the urgency and lightness, too. She looked up at Thorn. He was watching her intently. They must trust Meatha for a little while, bear with her for a little while. Give her fair chance, not withhold their trust from her. Not yet.

  Thorn gave her a questioning look, nodded at last, then blew out the lamp and lay down beside her. Almost at once he was snoring. Zephy scowled at the ease with which he slept, and she lay worrying for a long time. Should she alert the council? Thorn had withheld his judgment in this in deference to her. She felt unease at the strength of Meatha’s power. And yet if Meatha was right, if the fate of Ere could lie in that one stone carried into battle—Zephy sighed and tossed and could not sleep. And knew, beneath all her arguments, that she must be silent at least for a while. She could not do otherwise. She could not betray Meatha so easily.

  She slept at last, restlessly, tossing, then woke again before dawn to find Thorn wakeful beside her, both of them gripped as one in a vision that lifted and excited them, and brought hope. They Saw sleek, fast-running shapes slipping into Zandour and felt the sense of them lusting to destroy dark warriors: wolves, flowing into the ravaged villages, seeking out the drunken, sated Kubalese troops and killing them. Dozens of wolves killing silently then moving on to kill again.

  *

  Dracvadrig the man sat atop the broken tower seething at the vision of wolves. Wolves! Great Urdd, how he hated wolves. Fury overwhelmed him at their slaughter of RilkenDal’s troops. They could not waste troops on wolves. Writhing with fury, he grew nearly without volition into the dragon form, forgot the girl who slept among boulders there on the sea cliff, forgot Kish sleeping in the iron bed near him, thought only of the destruction of wolves. Hunched atop the tower, he spread his wings onto the night sky and leaped into darkness to circle once then head for Zandour, left Kish sleeping.

  He came down on Zandour screeching with such fury that the very dawn seemed made of dragon screams, swept low back and forth above the hills. But below him lay only emptiness. No wolves to be sensed or seen. Nothing. He dove and raked to death a dozen surviving Zandourian troops and their mounts and tore apart their camp, but his heart wasn’t in it. He could think only of wolves and of his own thwarted fury. He snatched one of the horses aloft and carried it back toward Pelli, sucking its blood as he flew, crushing it in his terrible anger.

  He returned to the tower to consume the rest of it, spitting the heavier bones into the lake below. The sound of his eating soon woke Kish. She stared at him, half with repugnance, half with fascination, as the horse’s head disappeared. “So you save the head for last.”

  He smiled a bloody smile and sat digesting horse in silence, hating the wolves in secret. Where had they come from, those cursed wolves?

  Kish said nothing, but as she watched him eating, she felt his thwarted fury growing around her. She slipped inside the armor of his blocking as cleverly as the serpent slips between stones. She sat quiet, soon Seeing his thoughts clearly. “Wolves!” she hissed. “How did they come without your knowing! How did you let them! Why didn’t you . . . ?”

  He was sated with horse, his belly distended, in no mood for a tirade. He hunched up across the top of the tower in his haste to be away from her, snarled at her once, then launched himself heavy as lead. He would find somewhere else to digest his breakfast, where he could have peace and silence.

  *

  When Dracvadrig did not return, Kish went down through the dark tower, treading ancient stone stairs around and around past tiers of battered cells where bones lay rotting inside. The drawbridge was down, lying broken and crooked across the black water.

  Soon she had passed through the ancient wood and stood at the far edge, surveying her encampments beneath a muddy sky. She saw the four hide tents that housed Carriol’s Seers, but she went not to those tents, but to the tall, elaborate bower that her people had raised for her.

  There she dressed herself in the finery kept ready for her, then called the cultists out of sleep to gather before her. The queen was come, the warrior queen. After ordering the Carriolinian Seers bound and brought to her, she stood scowling impatiently, waiting for her orders to be carried out, for the cultists hardly stirred. They seemed as confused and mindless as a batch of chidrack. What was the matter with them! Only a handful moved toward the Carriolinian tents, then even they were held back forcibly by their neighbors. Kish stared at them, unbelieving, then brought powers down on them that sent them to their knees. But still they would not move to fetch the Seers. Their eyes blazed with the old reverence when they looked on Kish, but they would not do her bidding.

  And in their tents, knowing what she intended, Zephy and Thorn and the twelve strong young Seers brought their powers, in turn, against Kish. They had been building for this: nursing the sick, conjuring magical ceremonies, doing everything they could to win the awe and love of the cultists. Now they joined together in all their power, in an effort so strong it might not be long expended, but that must wed the cults to the light while it held.

  Again Kish made her subjects kneel, flashing pain through them. But some rose in spite of the pain and moved toward her. Alarmed, she spoke out in silence to Dracvadrig: She would bring the dragon here and see them all dead before they defied her!

  But Dracvadrig did not answer her. He had gone on to the north, beyond Zandour, where now he glided above the high desert, immersed in the hunt like a harrying kestrel, searching over the hot sands and into shadows for wolves, and he had no time for Kish and her toys.

  The cultists watched Kish coldly. Her power locked and held against the power of Carriol’s Seers. Neither gave. She strained harder until at last, two dozen men broke from the ranks and joined her, taking up weapons to face the rest. But the Carriolinians’ power in those brief moments was strong indeed. Who would have thought a handful of Seers . . . ? She needed the power of a runestone. Then she would make the cultists crawl. Blast Dracvadrig for not coming to help her. He could have fetched his stone here, could . . . Well, she would have a runestone all right, a runestone much nearer than the one Dracvadrig carried. Maybe even two stones. And with that power she could destroy the puerile Seers. Yes, perhaps she could retrieve the second stone, too, she thought smiling, for already the girl Meatha crouched among boulders watching the divers prepare to bring it up out of the sea.

  In a hastily conjured ceremony, Kish appointed new leaders from the few faithful, then she had a horse brought. Dressed in her finery, mounted, she made the beast rear and roll its eyes, spun it, bid the cultists kneel again before her, then with effort she laid a fog upon their minds like glittering mist so only her face was clear amidst shifting images. She held the vision strong. When at last it faded and the cultists looked up, she was gone.

  SEVEN

  The boulders hid Meatha where she crouched, blocking, staring down the steep drop of sea cliff to where Alardded’s camp lay huddled on a narrow shelf just above the sea: two tents, a campfire. The sea was so clear she could see the submerged cliff wall sheering away deep into the water. The diving suit lay like a bloated body next to Alardded’s tent, lines coiled beside it. She could sense Michennann grazing inland, but the mare did not speak to her. The whole journey had been conducted in silence, Michennann barely cooperating, reluctant and unpleasant, as Meatha had never known her.

  She watched young Roth help Nicoli into the diving suit. Already the divers sensed the stone down there somewhere deep beneath the sea, and so did she. She blocked cautiously to protect the stone she carried, tied in a cloth bag beneath her tunic; waited patiently while Nicoli was dressed like a great doll in the diving suit, and the lines were checked. If she felt the touch of another mind, she turned away and blocked from it. Zephy must bear with her now and trust her if ever their friendship meant anything. Who had more right to the stone than she who had found it? Who had more right than she to carry it in a final battle against the slave-making Kubalese! She held her breath as Nicoli moved slowly to the edge of the cliff then jumped sudd
enly far out away from the lip. The lines coiled out smoothly after her as Alardded tended them, and Roth pumped on the bellows. Meatha grew so interested she soon forgot to block. Alarmed, she touched the stone, brought power around it quickly, chided herself for not paying attention. She watched the circle of bubbles where Nicoli had vanished and thought of the story of Ramad falling into the sea from the back of the monster Hape, of the stone falling away from him there, to be lost—to lie for six generations. How could Nicoli find the stone there, even with Seer’s senses to guide her, so small a stone in that immense, surging body of water? It seemed to Meatha an impossible task.

  Already she could feel that the sea floor was a tumble of boulders. Already she was beginning to know the construction, the first touch of panic, that the weight and confinement of the sea could bestow. The water rolled around the lines in gentle green swells. She saw through Nicoli’s eyes, at first only green light growing darker, then the dark, waving shapes of sea plants, a rising boulder, and the underwater world growing constantly darker and closer until Meatha’s pulse was pounding with the sense of confinement, the constriction of the heavy suit. The sea was a tomb closing over her. She began to tremble. She blocked frantically, incredulous that Nicoli felt no fear.

  She tried to remind herself that it was the lasting curse of the MadogWerg making her feel like this. Don’t let it! Don’t let it do this to you! But she couldn’t seem to help herself. She thought fleetingly that perhaps the MadogWerg had left other weaknesses. Did something dark touch her mind through that weakness, that emptiness she sometimes knew? But no! Nothing touched her but her own resolve, her own commitment to the salvation of Ere. Any other thought was madness. She put all else away from her.