A War of Stones: Book One of the Traveler Knight

by Howard Norfolk

  Kulith was going through the cottons, laces and satins, dividing them into two piles with the discretion of his own nose. He had the Tuvier Blade displayed now like a knife across his waist in a jeweled scabbard, with a belt that looked like it had once belonged to a prince. When he had separated the things out, he took a trunk and threw one pile into it, including some jewels and furs.

  “Take this down and burn them all,” he instructed one of the goblins, and pushed it across the floor with his foot, making a loud scraping noise as he did so. He took the other pile and loaded it into another trunk, then pushed this one across to Edou.

  “The Countess of Rydol must dress like she is worth the large ransom I have demanded,” the troll told them. “That will make me look important to Doom Wall, and to all our guests. Don’t displease me Little Toad,” he warned, “or I will crush your man’s other leg to match.”

  He then walked to the wall of the room and took a hanging off a large, full length mirror of silvered glass there. As soon as it was uncovered he made an angry noise at it and stepped back. He picked up a marble basin from its stand and threw it at the mirror, shattering them both against the wall. He picked up a little hand mirror from among the discarded items left there and threw it into the open chest.

  “You will use a different room,” he briskly told her. “I will have water brought to you.”

  They were taken down to a bathing room with a copper tub, chased on the edges and built into a tiled rise from the floor. It was very luxurious, but had been ruined by stains and old blood that now blackened it, and it had a foul mess in its bottom that was even worse.

  There were some large changing screens to one side and Sunnil used these after the leering goblins left her two buckets of tepid water, a bar of soap, and a roughly woven towel to dry with. She tried on the first thing she found and it worked, a sleeveless black dress of heavy linen, then a thread worked jacket with a gold collar button.

  She chose a string of hollow gold beads, worked from wire into their forms, and several rings that fit her, thinking of how they could be used later to trade for favors. She added a brooch with a long pin that could perhaps be used as a weapon in a pinch, or fashioned into a key. She pulled her hair back and twisted it, then clipped it to hang back from her face. She stared at her arms and hands now that the dirt was off. Something had darkened her skin, and it had not been the weak, mist shrouded sun that hung over the Dimm and gave no warmth. Perhaps it had been caused by the brew she had been forced to drink down when she was sick. She looked like a peasant girl that had been working out all day in the summer fields.

  When she returned to the hall Kulith and Ovodag were arguing some fine point of politics in regard to the map they had now hung on one of the walls. There were chalk circles drawn onto it, and various totems had been attached with leather and nails hammered into the wood. That was all the record keeping their savage strategies required.

  “Sterina. Why not Sterina?” Ovodag asked Kulith. “The little buggers are out there in the town, wanting to know when she will take over Sarik’s horde, like it’s a done deal.”

  “Why should we kneel ourselves to another thring, and not a very bold thring?” Kulith asked him back. “Perhaps if she left us alone on the Stones for twenty years without any interference, but you know that will not happen. She’ll want most of our loot, and she’ll want bodies, and she will get those one way or another, and it will be our blood. Why can’t the trolls rule here, with the greater goblin leaders? It will be bloody, but that blood will not feel wasted.”

  “This is how you talk, of safety for yourselves when you are not out butchering the children of the West Lands?” she said to them both, looking across at the trolls from the doorway she had come through.

  “Shut up Little Toad,” Kulith said. “You are here today to be seen, so that they know you are real.” He only gave her a half glance, then looked back at the map. “I will order you gagged and bound to one of the hall posts, if you make any more trouble for me.”

  Ovodag glared over at her, and then looked back at the map. But his eyes then flicked over for a moment at Kulith in consideration of something, before he took a long drink of tump out of a tarnished silver flagon.

  “There attacks you have planned with the goblins,” Ovodag said, pointing now to a place on the map, and then to a large black island they called the Long Bone. “That is a very old-set and great warren lord. Attacking him will weaken our position here.”

  “But the strongest will survive,” Kulith said. “And he has enraged several of the chiefs in Sarik’s old horde, by forcing them out of their warrens, or stealing from them. It strengthens us to get rid of him now. It will make three or four other warrens and the Tooth Swamp step to our side. That’s about four thousand little buggers.”

  “What are you going to do then with ten thousand little buggers?” Ovodag asked him.

  “We’ll need them to attack the Stone Pile,” Kulith revealed.

  “Isn’t that what we are trying to prevent today?” Ovodag argued. Urubo, the goblin leader of the Black Snakes was sitting nearby. He stroked one of his tusks thoughtfully.

  “The Stones are not together,” he said. “Sarik had seen to that. You’ll need blood to wet the mortar to bind them back up. The Lord of Long Bone has made himself a lot of enemies. It’s just fate that he has become our target, and he should realize his position.”

  “But if we kill too many of ourselves, we’ll become weaker while creating fodder for the thrings,” Ovodag said. “And we will be in real danger of attack from beyond the lip of the Dimm. You cannot fight everyone Kulith. How many empty acres of land will you march your buggers across to kill the last thring or goblin that stands against you?”

  “The only one who fought the Vagrim was me,” he replied. “It’s my right to do as I see fit here. I don’t see Sterina sharing power with any upstart troll, or with an alliance of goblins. She will fight us and use our dead to swell her ranks and then rule heavily, like the Grunter did before Sarik cut him up and buried him.”

  “You are saying this meeting is of no use?” Ovodag asked him.

  “Not without use,” Kulith corrected him. “We will show her we are ready to talk with her, and that we have goals that are not far off from her own. And by the time she gets her reply from us, we will be staged around Long Bone and be ready to attack it. Then we will mass north of the Tooth Swamp and figure out from there how to get onto Big Stone, to take the Stone Pile and destroy Vous Vox.”

  Some of the goblins stirred about uneasily. Ovodag frowned, but he knew it was also a great thing to say, and someone had finally said it. He looked like he wished it had been him.

  There was some commotion outside as the black coach they had heard of approaching from the south road arrived. The map was quickly taken down and carried away into another room by the trolls. Some of the goblins growled and retreated back inside the mansion from outside, to stand near the walls with their hands on their swords, knives and other weapons.

  The tables, benches, and barrels were moved around and the leaders of the bands all sat on them beside Sairk’s old chair. Kulith thought again about the goblin superstition of sitting in a chair. He agreed with their notion that he was now making himself vulnerable to attack.

  The others all looked worried, attentive. They were too attentive he thought. Kulith should have had them all eating meat, drinking beer, and ignoring the thring envoy when it came in. Ovodag soon came back inside from meeting the coach.

  “Sterina has sent us one of her children,” he said. “It’s a doll, the one that was assisting Vous Vox at the Stone Pile.” The trolls snarled and the goblins traded angry looks. It was a gesture that showed she considered Vous Vox to be in charge, and that the authority on the Dimm was still centered at the Stone Pile. They had been at Doom Wall now for more than two weeks, and it was more than enough time for one of Sterina’s great captains in the swamp to row across and present himself as a proper envoy.
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  “Bring it in to talk with us,” Kulith told him.

  The thring came in a few moments later. It was dressed in dark brown velvets and dull black leather. It had on an old gold chain of office, and a great gold buckle on its belt. It wasn’t a war leader like the Vagrim had been, or powerful in magic like Sarik. It had fine features, long red hair and no visible damage. It was one of the lesser children of Sterina. It was indeed a toy she had created.

  Kulith had seen demons before when thrings suddenly stopped working. Sometimes they rose up and hovered for a moment like a mist over the body before dissipating. He had sensed Little Toad’s demon waking up and he had quickly acted and burned it out of her. He could barely sense any power at all in this one. It was pretty and it was expendable: nothing more than a sheet of parchment that Sterina could use to write on and read from.

  “What does the White Child want to tell us?” Kulith asked it.

  It had become immediately attracted to Little Toad and the lame archer when it entered, looking at them as possible food. Their blood would burn it now since they had drunk the herbs, and Kulith was tempted to propose to it just such a thing. But no, the girl was too valuable to him as she was.

  “Doll! Tell me your message,” Kulith ordered it. It turned its attention reluctantly to them and addressed the entire group of chiefs, taking on an affected stance with one of its arms raised out in front of it.

  “The Mistress of the Pale Shore demands that you send her your tribute, and that you call in Sarik’s army from the Priwak and rebuild it at Warukz, in readiness for a winter campaign against the Goloks of the Bezet March.”

  “Who will lead this campaign?” Kulith asked it. “The Vagrim came among us and tried to assume leadership, but he was unsuitable, unfit. He was so weak that a mere half blood troll destroyed him. Who will lead the horde now?”

  “You will submit to the children and captains that are sent out to you from the Pale Shore,” it replied.

  “Sarik’s treasure is of course hers,” Kulith generously admitted. “And we continue to collect the dead penny, and fill the dead carts and send them on to the Stone Pile. We had hoped though to go into the Golok March instead and secure meat for winter, and other things that we want and lust for.”

  “So shall you,” it said, “through conquest.” Kulith saw why this particular thring had been sent to them.

  “That’s easy for a thring to say,” one of the goblin chiefs remarked. “You never need rest. We have been out on campaign in the West Lands for six months. Now you want us to go and attack the only place outside the Dimm that will let us spend our booty? Do you know of our losses? If the warriors in the bands don’t get a chance for rest, they may not muster for you at all next year. They’ll desert and you will have to go out and forcefully catch them up, two or a dozen at a time and press them back into ranks.”

  “The Mistress of the Pale Shore demands that you send her your tribute,” it repeated. “And this girl, this noble girl you have captured.”

  “She is valuable to us,” Kulith said. “More valuable than the words that the White Child has made you speak to us here. If she is moved far away from the Priwak, she will no longer work as a shield against attack.” It glared at him and then it smiled, and then it licked its teeth over with its black tongue.

  “I have brought a troll here from the Stone Pile to take command of Sarik’s horde. Vous Vox has sent a knight out to you from his garrison.” It turned back and looked silently at one of the lesser thrings there. The ghoul turned around and went outside, then came back with a great, tall, well muscled troll with a sword and a spiked mace balanced down on his belt. The troll crossed its arms and stared across at Kulith in challenge.

  “I am Turge, and that noble girl is mine,” he said. Kulith turned and looked back at the thring doll as he tapped the pommel of the Tuvier Blade with a finger.

  “If I kill your champion here, we do not have to obey a single thing that you’ve said. Vous Vox will have moved openly against us, and will then he will have to try and placate us somehow. How can you thrings expect us to turn over most of our loot after such a long campaign, and then go right back out to die again, to just get you more?” The thring relaxed its stiff white hand and looked around at them all.

  “You are in fear even as I look at you,” it said. “Like dogs do you wait so well, to be told what to do by my mistress.” Kulith stood up, casually leaning to the side to pick up a piece of firewood he had earlier sharpened on one end to make a stake.

  “Enough of that talk. Get out of my way.” He drew the sword and sensed that it seemed interested in fighting the other troll, as if the creature had done something particularly evil, or had a black heart through and through. Turge seemed unsurprised, and he came forward and drew forth his own weapons. Kulith wondered what had been promised to him. The whole affair made it certain to Kulith that the thrings were looking at him from afar as the rival to their own power.

  He kicked a bench out of the way and jumped forward to cross blades with the larger, stronger troll. Behind him, Little Toad made a sharp sound in her throat and was hushed quiet, perhaps by the lame archer. Turge tried to rake him with the spikes on the mace, but only scratched the shirt of new chainmail that Kulith had started wearing. He pushed the mace away with the sharpened piece of wood, levering it between the spikes. Their sword blades scraped across each other, and that really got their blood going.

  Sunnil saw Kulith then get pushed back by the bigger troll, his boots digging into the ashes from the fire pit as they grappled on its edge, then Kulith trapped Turge’s foot and threw him sideways across the pit hearth, scattering the rocks at its base, knocking down a set of iron spits and part of a still cooking carcass. Turge rolled away, smoking, with red coals and ashes falling off of him.

  He held his weapon up at guard watching Kulith, and then jumped forward back across the fire, slashing with the mace, and then flowing with an undercut from his sword. He went forward twice like this, in a great flurry, and then they ended in another lock. Kulith pushed him back again, this time against some shields hung up upon the hall’s paneled wall. Turge brought his sword point down and tried to stab Kulith through the breast.

  Kulith slid sideways, twisting, and the point scraped off his mail shirt. He caught it with the long wooden stake and parried it away, then spun around and with uncanny speed locked it against the wall with the Tuvier Blade. This time it knocked several shields down, and Turge swayed off balance for a moment as he stepped onto one of them. Kulith’s sword moved around quickly and cut up across the bottom of the troll’s forearm before he was able to pull it back. Turge used this opening to bring his mace down on Kulith’s head and he caught a piece of his scalp with it and scraped two groves down the right side of his cheek.

  He followed with a sword slash, but Kulith caught it with the stick of wood and forced it to the side, again pinning it for a moment against the wall panels. Kulith shifted his weight and twisted the troll’s forearm. Turge shouted and lost his grip on the blade, and jumped back away. But he was not quite quick enough. Kulith followed him with the Tuvier Blade, faster than any there could imagine for him to move it. It came forward in a twisting arc, and slashed Turge across the chest and throat. There was a great spray of metal chain links and blood, and then the larger troll grabbed at his throat and stumbled back, falling to his knees.

  The goblins, always in awe of the power and durability of the trolls had expected a longer, bloodier battle as the two gradually wore each other down. But it was also more than acceptable to sometimes witness such a sudden reversal and surprise, and the skillful move that made it so. As they reckoned it, the duel had gone in their favor also. What would have happened if it had not gone their way was a question no one needed to waste their thinking about now. Sterina the White Child would almost certainly have to now accept Kulith’s leadership, as well as VousVox, who had just lost his foremost champion.

  Turge tried to staunch the wound to his neck
from bleeding out, but it was too deep and through. He collapsed over and sprawled out on the dirty flagstones, face up. One of his hands flopped onto the fire pit’s hearthstones and started to sizzle. The thyrs and goblins involuntarily began to slaver and lick their lips. Kulith stood back and glared down at the dying troll, then flicked away some of the blood clinging to the Tuvier Blade. He moved it around now and pointed with its tip at Sterina’s doll.

  “There is your answer,” Kulith said. “Now go back to the Stone Pile and tell Vous Vox that we do not accept Sterina’s command. She may approach us again with better terms, and we may then agree to do her bidding. If she does not do this soon we will disband Sarik’s horde and return to our warrens, caves and lairs until spring. She will have to then approach each individual chief anew, and try to get them to join and fight in her horde.”

  The thring gritted its teeth and glared at him for a moment and then it silently commanded its white coachmen to go retrieve Turge body off the floor. As they moved forward and take it up, Kulith put up his hand as a warning to stop.

  “No!” Kulith shouted at them. “He is lost to you! I will not fight him again.”

  This was another slight against Sterina and Vous Vox’s authority. Along with the dead penny, all useful, strong bodies were collected up be made into thrings. The doll hissed out, showing its black tongue before it spun around and left by the door, and a moment later they heard the waiting black coach in the yard drive away.

  Kulith kicked the still sizzling arm off the hot rocks and paused to look for valuables on the troll’s body. Then he bothered to check his own injuries and head, muttering at the blood and the cuts.

  “I may have these stitched later,” he said.

  “He was quite a champion, this knight of the Stone Pile,” Ovodag commented, and drank down another mouthful of tump. A couple of the goblins chiefs made oaths, or spit out on the floor. It was not a title that someone who had raided out in the West Lands would care to use. Knights were their sword and sworn enemies, and it was demeaning to call another bugger that.