The SoulNecklace Stories

by R. L. Stedman

  Thoughts washed through his mind. Sorrow, love, regret. Morque, his wife. A flash of images – a woman smiling in the sunlight, lying on a bed, smoking candlelight masking her smiling face, eating, talking. Another bed, but now her face was white, unmoving. In her arms a tiny, black-haired baby. Care for his men. More flashes: an old man, all-mighty, all-knowing. His master. Eternal. The word echoed like an empty gong through our joined minds. We, I/him, felt deep fear, groin-gripping, bowel-loosening terror at the old one’s power.

  The smell of his mother: pungent, loving. A man settles him onto a horse, laughs when he grips the coarse mane with tight child-fists. His father. A dead face, streaked with blood – the first man he’d killed. The smooth gallop of his horse, the harsh pull of the wind. The raw cold of the winter steppes.

  It was overwhelming. Where among all these memories was I? I fell quiet as a snowflake, settling gently in the background of his mind, trying to regain my balance, my self. This man, older, harder, could overwhelm me, and then – but I’m not really here. This is a dream. He is my creation. But remembering the girl who wavered like a candle in the light of day, I wasn’t so sure. What is my dream? What is my reality?

  All this happened slowly, as slowly as a glacier grinding rock to stone, and yet it happened as quickly as the beating of a bee’s wing. And then a desperate, lucid thought. Try to pretend this is a story. Was the thought mine? It didn’t matter.

  Grasping this, I thought: Yes. I’m reading a wonderful book about a military commander in a foreign army. His name is TeSin. It’s drawn me into its pages. So vivid, that I feel like I’m there. But I can close this book anytime I like.

  The soldier spoke again. “Sir? Are you well?”

  TeSin coughed and rubbed his forehead. He had felt a little dizzy. Perhaps it was the strange food.

  There stood Sho, his captain, polite concern on his face. “The captives, sir. We need your final orders.”

  TeSin turned. The prisoners, kept to one side as their possessions were inventoried, appeared a motley collection. All elderly or diseased. No doubt aware of the Arm of the Eternal’s use of kharash, human shields, the young and healthy had fled. There were a few young children; probably orphans with no one to rescue them. They might fetch some slave value back on the steppes, but he was not in the mood for child-rearing.

  “Dispatch them all,” he said, with a wave of his hand.

  In the back of his mind, I told myself: This is just a dream. A story. Read on.

  In the middle of the flock an aged cripple, clad in a ragged shift, set up a great cry. “Woe! Oh, woe!”

  “Old man,” said TeSin sternly, “I offer you a clean death.”

  “Master,” wailed the ancient, “death is never clean.”

  TeSin, interested in this philosophy, paused and realized that here was a man who spoke his language.

  “Withdraw that man,” said TeSin. “He may prove useful. The rest you may deal with.”

  “Sir,” bowed Sho.

  The old one shuffled slowly out of the press of cowed individuals. “Oh great one,” he said, and prostrated himself at TeSin’s feet. “Grant one more mercy. Spare my wife, for is it not said, “A wife is a comfort and a delight”?”

  The poets had indeed said such a thing, and truly the old man, with his bandaged feet and gnarled limbs, appeared to require comfort.

  “Which is your wife?”

  The old man pointed to a woman at the front of the crowd. More comely than the others, with clear skin and brown hair in a single braid, she was dressed modestly in brown cloth. TeSin nodded. “Very well. You may have your wife.”

  “Aaaiee,” wailed a woman at the back of the crowd. Her stringy hair was pushed back from a wrinkled face. The heads of the villagers turned to look at her as she cried out. From the confusion on their faces they did not seem to understand her, but TeSin and his soldiers heard her clearly. “Master, Revered One, that harlot is not his wife. I am. Fifty years serving him, bearing and raising his children. And look! This is how I am rewarded?” She spat on the ground.

  Sho and TeSin grinned. “She speaks better than the old man, sir,” Sho whispered. “Her accent is easier to understand.”

  “Old woman,” said TeSin, “you may step forward.” He turned to the man, struggling to his feet. “Well, old man, what is it to be? This woman, stern of character and possessing excellent language skills, or the younger woman? Admittedly the younger is more attractive, but presumably less deserving.”

  The old man bowed low. “Honored Lord, you are generous. Can I not have them both?”

  At that, the watching soldiers began to laugh. The villagers exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Old man,” said TeSin, “because of your boldness and my generosity, I show mercy. Both women shall be yours.” He turned to the soldiers. “Leave the old woman.”

  The dark-haired woman shrieked when a soldier grabbed her, but the crone hobbled over to her, murmuring softly, and she subsided. The two women sobbed and embraced each other, seemingly drawing comfort from each other’s presence. TeSin wondered how long that comfort would last.

  “Come, old man,” said TeSin, turning to his tent. “Now you earn your keep. Where did you learn your language skills? And what can you tell me of yonder city and its soldiers?”

  The old man shuffled behind him, pushing the hide curtain aside with difficulty. “My name, oh Most Gracious Lord, was Sabhir El-Shabiya. Now I am simply known as “old man”.” He bowed his head. “My Lord, I am old and frail, and as you have seen, I suffer. May I sit?”

  The tent was simply furnished with a collapsible wooden map table and two stools. At night, blankets and a sleeping mat would be set out. TeSin waved the old man to the other stool.

  Grunting, the old man squatted uneasily on the low leather seat. His gnarled fingers, clasped tight, shook slightly. At first TeSin took this to be a sign of fear. No, he was wrong. The old one had an addiction to fermented berry juice. Men with such symptoms were generally unreliable witnesses, erratic of temper, aging early and dying young. Maybe he should order the removal of the old man and his unlikely flock of women? No, stay, it would be better to hear the old man’s tale. He could dispose of him at any time.

  The old man coughed moistly and continued. “In my youth, My Lord, I was a merchant. My uncle, may he rest in peace, was a successful trader. He had inherited a profitable business from his father and his father before him, but he had no son to pass it on to. My father, may he rest in peace, came to my uncle, and said, “My son loves tales of other lands. He is always crowding the docks and annoying the sailors. Would you take him as an apprentice?”

  “My uncle, a good and just man, took me on. For many years I worked for him, traveling across the seas to the land of spices, carrying cinnamon and pepper to our city. As my skills grew, my uncle sent me further afield, across the world’s roof and into the land of silk and paper. I traded texts for precious fabrics, ambergris and frankincense for jade. That was where I learnt your language, My Lord.” He sighed. “It was a good life.”

  Sho scratched at the canvas. “My Lord Noyan?”

  “Enter,” said TeSin.

  “The woman of this man asks if she may speak with you.”

  Women were not usually so bold. “Show her in.”

  Stooping low, the crone pushed her way into the tent. Her hair hung in limp hanks and her nose protruded like a gnarled root from her wrinkled face. “My Lord,” she bowed low, “my revered husband here may need assistance. He is often indisposed in the morn.”

  TeSin admired her lack of irony and, as Sho had noticed, her accent was pleasing. Despite her lack of teeth, she still spoke well, as though she had learnt his language young. “You may speak.”

  “My Lord, I heard my husband speak of his youth, when he was a trader, traveling far across many lands.”

  “You traveled with him, did you not?”

  She bowed stiffly. “My Lord, I am Fatima, his wife. I was also his cousin. He was appr
enticed to my father. I have spent my life journeying from lands where all is ice, to islands where strong castles made of thick stone stand watch over empty valleys. I have traveled to your land, My Lord, and much, much further, to where men cross tall mountains on bare feet and magicians travel on the wind. I speak the tongues of all the lands I have visited, My Lord.”

  TeSin looked at her appraisingly. She spoke like a witch, but still, she could be useful. “Do you know the city on the river yonder?”

  “My Lord?”

  “My master has ordered me to take the city. Now, you old folk must earn your keep. Your domestic squabbles are entertaining but have delayed me long enough.” He stood. “We must complete the work here and prepare for our next conquest.”

  Harsh nails scratched the tent walls and a thin voice whined. “My Lord?”

  TeSin stifled a sigh. The Eternal One was all-knowing, all-powerful, but he burdened his Noyan with a strange entourage. “Enter.”

  The thing that shuffled into the tent looked more like one of the old villagers than a man of the Shield. Its back was bent, its long hair covered its face. Its nails were long and tipped with bronze.

  “There is something here, My Lord.”

  “In the tent?”

  “No, My Lord.” The magic worker cackled. “The old woman knows. Ask her.”

  “Old woman?”

  “My Lord, I know many things,” said Fatima, “but I do not know what this creature is asking.”

  “Heh, heh.” The magic worker turned its back, trundling out of the tent with surprising speed.

  TeSin followed, swallowing his complaints. Why must he be hampered with this charlatan? These so-called magicians added nothing to his fighting force, just made mysterious pronouncements.

  The brush walls of the village still smoldered and the smoke stung TeSin’s eyes. They passed down mud-encrusted streets. How could people live like this, hemmed into wooden-walled buildings, scrambling in the mire like pigs? The folk of the Shield lived clean, out on the grasslands, wandering with only a tent, their horses, their woman.

  The magic worker scrabbled among the muck, muttering to itself.

  “Wise one,” TeSin asked, “what do you search for?”

  “Heh,” it said. “Nothing, My Lord. Or is it everything?” It pointed with a gnarled finger at a small wooden lean-to, built against a large stone building. A sign hung above the door.

  “It’s an inn,” TeSin said to Sho. “I can’t read the writing, but this is how the barbarians signify their meeting places.”

  Sho nodded. “I have heard of them.” He pointed to the shack behind the inn. “What is this?”

  “My Lords,” Sabhir’s voice quivered like the sign above, “this is my home.”

  “Heh, heh, ask her, she knows,” said the magic worker in a high, sing-song voice.

  “Old woman,” said TeSin, “you will tell us, sooner or later. It would be easier for all of us if it were sooner.”

  “This creature, this thing, tells us there is something of importance. Yet truly, My Lord, I do not know what it is.” Fatima gestured at her husband. “You see us, Lord. Do we look as though we have anything of value?”

  “She does, she does,” squawked the soothsayer. It rushed toward the small hut, its black cloak floating bat-like on the breeze. “I will find it, My Lord.”

  There was a thump, a thud, inside the hut. And silence. TeSin waited, impatient. At this time of a campaign there were many details to attend to: the injured, horses, weapons, the men’s food. “See what’s delaying him, Sho.” He turned to the two old ones. “You live and die at my command. You understand?”

  The old woman knelt stiffly in the mud. “My Lord. You are generous.”

  Sho emerged from the hut. “Lord Noyan. You’d better see this.”

  Flat on his back in the darkness lay the soothsayer. His eyes were open, but unmoving.

  “He’s not dead,” said Sho, “I think.”

  What was the man thinking of, barging into an enclosed space without pausing to see if there was danger? One grimy hand was open, its bronze-tipped nails splayed, as though in shock. One was tightly clasped on his chest. It wouldn’t be comfortable to hold your hand clenched with nails like that. What would he want to clutch so closely?

  “Sho,” he said, “open his hand. But be careful.”

  It looked like a seed. About the size of a thimble, brown. Gingerly, TeSin took it from the grimy palm. It felt coarse, scratchy. What had happened to the man?

  “It’s too dark in here,” said TeSin. “Carry him out.”

  Out in the morning light, he held out the seed to the old ones. “This. What is it?”

  Sho, behind him, grunted with the effort of dragging the comatose soothsayer.

  The old man picked up the brown seed, turning it over in the sunlight. “My Lord, it appears to be a nut. No! It has carvings on it. So finely done, you can only see them close up.” He rubbed his eyes. “Fatima? Your sight is better than mine.”

  The old woman took it from him, her fingers gentle. “I had forgotten this.” She glanced up at TeSin. “Truly, My Lord.” She turned it over in the sunlight and sighed. “Has it done this to your magic worker?”

  “Apparently.”

  Sho heaved the magic worker onto his shoulders and, feet splayed awkwardly under his burden, started down the hill. “I’ll take him to the doctors.”

  TeSin nodded, looked at the small item again. “Old woman?”

  Fatima handed it to him. The old man was right. Not a seed. Fine carving, like the carving on a bead. Five-petaled flowers with thick, thorned stems.

  “Roses,” said the old woman.

  “What?” The thing was compelling, forced the eye onward around the small object. One flower merged into another; no beginning, no ending.

  “The flower. It’s a rose.”

  Was this what the Eternal was seeking? The Great One had spoken of treasure. Might he, TeSin, be the one to bring the Lord his desire? “Is it magic?”

  The old woman frowned. “Truly, Lord, I never knew it to be so. My father gave it to me.”

  TeSin looked at Sabhir. “What do you know of this thing?”

  The old man shrugged. “As she says, Lord. Fatima’s father gave it to her when she was a child. We have nothing of value, My Lord. Truly, we had forgotten we had this thing.”

  TeSin looked up at the sky. The sun, now high, was unpleasantly warm and he had things to do. “Come, you can tell me in my tent.”

  Maybe the old woman hadn’t forgotten about this memento at all, but had desperately tried to hold onto something from her father while her husband had drunk all the rest of their possessions. “Where is it from, Fatima?”

  “Father was given it. On a trading expedition to a distant land.” She stumbled on the stones of the hill. The old man took her arm gently and tucked it under his. “I was heavy with our first child, Sabhir was away on a journey to your land, Lord. I could not travel, and I was miserable. When my father returned, he handed me this.” She gestured at the bead still held in his hand. “I was not very grateful, Lord. He upbraided me for my lack of respect. He told me it was very precious. These tokens are very rare, very valuable.”

  “What are they?”

  “Entry tokens, Lord. To a kingdom far away.” The woman sighed. “My father said the place was ruled over by a great sorceress. Only those who carry these tokens may enter. He promised to take me with him on his next trip, but he died that winter and, in my sorrow, I forgot his gift.”

  “Old woman, Fatima,” said TeSin, pushing open the tent flap and ushering them inside, “you have earned your right to life. Sabhir, you ride with your wife and your woman tonight.”

  “Tonight, My Lord?”

  “I will send you and this thing to the Stronghold.”

  “The Stronghold?” The old man crept closer to his woman. She put her hand on his arm, as if to calm him.

  “You wish us to go to the Black City?” Fatima asked. “My Lord,
that is far from here.”

  “You told me yourself, you are used to travel.”

  “My Lord, we are old. And I have heard tales of your city.”

  TeSin sighed. These two old people were proving more trouble than any recruit. “My master, the King of Kings, has instructed me: any treasures must be sent to him. Without delay. So tonight, you must depart. But first, I need information. You will talk with Sho. I need the plans for the wall, maps of the defenses, other points of access. Such as waste and water outlets. We attack tomorrow.”

  The old people sank onto their stools with a sigh.

  Striding out of the tent, searching for Sho among his soldiers, the Noyan noticed again the crowd of prisoners and called to his captain. “You may dispose of the prisoners. We will keep the three, as agreed.”

  The soldiers closed around the villagers, crowding them, herding them like sheep to the place where the road would have met the gates. At arrow point they knelt in a sobbing line beside the road. One of the old ones fell onto her face in the damp mud. Another began singing, in a weak and quavering voice. The song might have been inspiring if the voice had more conviction. The persons on either side of her took up the song and soon the whole line of villagers, old men and women and young children, stifled their sobs and sang in the early morning sunlight.

  Two soldiers, one at each end of the queue of villagers, systematically progressed along the line, beheading each one with a sharp sword. Gradually the singing ceased, until finally all was silent, except for the sighing of the wind in the grasses and the harsh calls of the crows.

  I screamed, soundlessly, Stop! Stop!

  TeSin stumbled. The ground here is treacherous. These villagers are lazy caretakers of their land.

  He beckoned the captain of the horses. “Let the horses graze freely. They may eat as much grass as they require. We leave tomorrow.”

  Behind him, the soldiers disposed of the bodies in the traditional way: the heads piled up to face the road, the bodies thrown into a pit.