Chapter 40
Although Huldarion was bone-weary in body, the pain was firing up all along his left-hand side after his exertions in the fight. He knew that it would not allow him to sleep for a while yet. In any case his mind was over-active: so he put it to work reviewing the long day’s events, setting them in order in his mind, labelling and sorting.
His own men and women first. All evening, even through the conversations, his thoughts had kept returning to the dead. The Riders had already said words of respect and thanks but of course that was not enough, nothing was ever enough, and now he listed the names again in silence – that silence wherein the dead eternally endured – and wondered if any would be added to their number from the injured. No more, he hoped. Next he travelled mentally around the infirmary, assessing who might require transport in the carts.
His thoughts paused on Sashel, the youngest of his captains. Sashel would mend – but asking him to keep his captaincy after his brother’s death might have been a mistake. On the other hand, would making him step down not have been seen as a humiliation?
No easy answer. Should have foreseen his sudden impetuous rage: Gordal had been like that. Don’t dwell on Gordal’s death. He himself could put that picture of the crumbling corpse aside at will. Sashel would not be able to: perhaps not ever. But he was young.
But then so was Ikelder. He’d done well, surpassing expectations. For a man so awkward – moved as if none of his limbs quite fitted – he was anything but awkward on the field. Strong fighter. Kept his head, and directed his company wisely, without panic. A good second, too, in Dorac: that could be a man worth considering for captain himself, if Thoronal…?
But no, he couldn’t demote Thoronal. He was too senior and his cousin besides. That counted for something even with the Vonn. Not to Kelvhan levels, but still. And Thoronal’s loss of confidence would be temporary, surely; it was unusual for him.
Perhaps he needed another first counsellor, though, while Thoronal recovered his sense of self-worth. Indeed, he hoped he would soon need half a dozen counsellors – men suited to accompany him into Kelvha Castle, were he to win an invitation as he hoped: men he could trust, but who would also look and act the part. No women, naturally. But they were probably getting used to that.
Now he began to run through candidates in his mind. Solon? Probably, although he was inclined to cynicism. Uld? A thoughtful man, perhaps too reticent. Crade? Over-cautious. Huldarion knew that he himself was already circumspect: he didn’t need an over-cautious counsellor.
Veron… No, not inside the castle. Veron was a man apart. Huldarion had been aware that not once in her account had Yaret spoken of the huntress by her name. The name still echoed in his mind. Unsaryun: he thought it but would never say it. That circumspection. You never knew what might happen. But no. Not Veron.
Parthenal? Unequalled on the battlefield, but off it had perhaps too little caution, too much confidence. He looked over at Parthenal, stretched out on the floor. Always restless in his sleep, he had flung an arm over Rothir. With his proclivities… unacceptable in Kelvha. Parthenal would have to restrain himself for a while. Might be safer to keep him in the background.
Rothir. Deep. He’d known the man most of his life – would trust him with his life – but hard to work him out sometimes. Tough as steel when needed, resolute even to the point of defiance, but had a conscience, thankfully; a good tactician, but not a strategist, not a planner for the long-term.
While he gazed at Rothir with affection, Yaret half sat up and with her eyes still closed unloosed some strapping round her leg. There was a faint thunk as her boot fell off, the false foot still inside it. As she lay back down again to sleep he thought, Well. That was disconcerting.
So what was going on between Rothir and Yaret – if anything? Rothir probably didn’t know himself. He’d rescued her, of course, that made a bond. And a difficulty. If you’d saved someone’s life they had a lot to live up to. Made it hard to see them clearly.
Maybe it was no more than gratitude and friendship on Yaret’s side. And Rothir’s sense of responsibility was always strong – like his sister Olbeth. No, don’t go there.
Yet I must go there, he thought. Soon I must think of some woman, if I am to progress in Kelvha. Women are their chief diplomatic currency after military might. Not likely there’ll be any Olbeth waiting for me in the castle, though…. Just hope for a woman I can live with, who can live with me. Even that might be too optimistic. Need to talk to Tiburé about it.
But that was some way off. There was still fighting to be done; though none as fierce, he hoped, as what they’d just gone through. Now that the Outland Forts had been reclaimed, there were the western borderlands to reinforce. Shargun to be propitiated. The Prince to be befriended.
All that to think about. He made himself put much of it aside except the coming journey to the borderlands: calculating how many sound horses they still had, how long it would take. Yet just before he slept, it was Olbeth’s face he saw.
In the morning there was a more general stock-taking. The reports from the western borderlands continued to be good; General Istard had successfully destroyed the stonemen’s stronghold there. Huldarion walked over to the second fort where the Kelvhan Prince sat breakfasting with Shargun at an ornate travelling table, picking at a plate of elegant sweetmeats, while his commanders were standing in attendance. Did the Kelvhans bring a pastry-cook with them? Huldarion wondered, both amused and faintly appalled.
He was not invited to sit down and join them. But that will change, he thought; for I will see to it: and then he volunteered the services of the Vonn to go west and help clear up after General Istard. His offer was accepted. One of the Kelvhan commanders would also go, with a small troop of cavalry. There was no rush, however, so they would use this day to organise matters: not least the burial of the dead.
Prince Faldron and the Arch-Lord Shargun were to return the following day to Kelvha – much to the Prince’s disgust. But the Arch-Lord argued persuasively for his return.
“I don’t see why. I’d rather stay and be part of the campaign,” said Faldron. “I don’t often get the chance to do any real fighting. I have to learn it somehow. It’s quite different to a tournament.”
To Faldron this was still little more than a game, thought Huldarion; and yet he considered that the young Prince had a point. The western borderlands would be a far safer place to blood him in battle than the one they had just gone through. There, Faldron could track down and kill a stray stoneman or two with minimum risk.
Huldarion became aware that, like the Kelvhans, he was thinking of the stonemen as little more than wooden soldiers: mere targets for military practice. It bothered him, even if the stonemen’s own commanders regarded them in the same way. They were profligate with their men, and made no attempt to reclaim the bodies – only the stones. Those seemed more important than the heads that bore them. He had not forgotten what Yaret had told him about the lonely stoneman she had killed. Only ten... His dislike of the idea was not a reason to ignore it.
But Shargun was still speaking to the Prince.
“You must think of your people, Highness, who wish most earnestly to see you safely back in Kelvha. They fret for you every day that you are absent,” said the Arch-Lord smoothly.
The Prince pouted a little. But he gave in to Shargun; which made Huldarion wonder why the Arch-Lord had not put his foot down earlier, to stop Faldron charging into battle?
He could not read the situation. Possibly the Prince was not all that sorry to return to his home comforts, and Shargun seemed genuinely anxious that he should withdraw. Perhaps the near-disaster of the Prince’s riding out to fight had made him wary. Huldarion put in an appreciative word about Faldron’s gallantry, and was rewarded by an invitation to the castle hunt.
“When you come to Kelvha,” said the Prince – that when was a reassuring thing to hear –– “when you come to Kelvha, you will see our hunting forest, far more attractive and well-filled than this one.” As if the battlefield were merely a hunting forest too, scaled up, with human prey. And insufficiently attractive for the Prince’s liking. Huldarion bowed and smiled his thanks.
No, he would not be sorry to see Faldron and Shargun and their entourage depart. They were to take a portion of their dead – the high-born – back to Kelvha with them, for burial in their homeland. Their common soldiers had already been interred with meagre ceremony in a hastily dug grave behind the forts. Huldarion, who had not even been aware of this until they now mentioned it in passing, did not approve of such casual disposal of the slain.
By contrast, the Vonn’s dead, along with Melmet’s, would be laid to rest with full honours near the bleak battlefield where they had fallen. After the meeting dispersed he made his way first to the low mound that hid the Kelvhan corpses, and stood at its foot to give his murmured thanks regardless of what any watching Kelvhans might make of this behaviour. These had not been his people, yet he honoured them.
Next, heavy-hearted, he walked away from the camp to check the progress of the digging of the Vonn’s mass grave. Although the plain was despoiled by the trampling of countless feet, and the stonemen had felled so many of the trees, he thought the land would recover its wildness in due time – once it was left alone. Lonely it would certainly be. Are the dead lonely, he wondered, or are they anywhere? In any case, the untouchable shining glory of the Liath Mountains would be a fitting backdrop for them.
Next there was the management of the carrying of casualties back to Thield. That tented city would soon move and be re-established, he hoped, within the bounds of eastern Kelvha. He went to consult with the medics and to check the status of the carts.
While he was there, the Baron of the Broc came marching over to him with one of his attendants.
“Huldarion. How do.”
He did not mind this abrupt form of address from the Baron; for he sensed that Grusald would have been more formal with someone he liked less.
“I do well,” he said. “And you?”
“Getting ready to leave,” said Grusald. “However, some of the men under my command wish to continue on with you rather than return to Melmet.”
“The hunters?”
The Baron bowed. “Those and a few others.”
“All help is welcome, especially from Melmet,” he replied.
“I myself have some regrets in riding back to Melmet,” said the Baron, “not least in leaving you. But our affairs there call us, and our casualties do not permit of us continuing.” Huldarion knew that the Baron had no love for Kelvha; so this admission of regret must be meant as a compliment to the Vonn.
He bowed in his turn. “Your support has been greatly valued. The courage and discipline of your men is most impressive; and I say that not to flatter, but because it is true.”
“I think we fought our corner,” said the Baron with a grim smile. “We’ve rid this part of the country of the plague of stonemen, at least. By the way; we’ve got two of them held prisoner. Are you interested?”
“Stonemen?”
The Baron nodded. “The only two that we could take alive. At the first sign of being captured, they’ll generally kill themselves. These two were disarmed first. Not that it stops them from trying anyway. They were beating their heads against the trees until we tethered them away from any means of doing themselves harm.”
“Where are they?”
“On the other side of our camp. We kept them away from the Kelvhans. I thought we might get something useful out of them; but it’s my opinion they don’t know anything useful. Almost feel sorry for the poor devils.”
“Why?”
The Baron shook his head. “Since last night, they seem to have been going mad with pain. Clutching at their heads… Come and see them, if you like. We’ll have to put them out of their misery before we leave – unless you want them? Don’t like killing a prisoner unnecessarily. One thing in battle, quite another when they’re tied.”
“I understand that,” said Huldarion. “Yes. I’d like to see them.” After a moment’s thought he called Solon to accompany him to the far side of the Melmet camp.
Poor devils, indeed, he thought, on seeing the two stonemen, each tethered separately to stakes driven deep into the earth. On their short halters one walked, one crawled, unceasingly, as if they could not bear to be still. Their heads were marked with bruises, and long trickles of blood were running from the stones. They’d been given bread and water which lay within their reach, untouched.
Huldarion understood pain well. He understood his own, at least, from long acquaintance: he knew how it waxed and waned, what helped, what didn’t. Distraction was, for him, important. These men had no distraction from their pain. And while his own face was afflicted, he considered himself lucky that his head was not. Those stones… Even his partial knowledge of what they must be suffering turned him nauseous.
He tried to speak to each stoneman in turn, while the Baron and his men looked on in a mixture of pity and disgust. The stoneman on his knees either could not or would not answer any question except in moans. The other did not cease his restless pacing, but he did speak.
His name was Kostor. He would not say his commander’s name, nor the names of any of his superiors. He did not know their plans, he said.
“I just follow orders. March here, march there. Now fight.” He spoke guttural Standard.
“The fighting is over,” Huldarion told him. “You have nothing to lose by speaking.”
“I have nothing to say.” He turned to walk the few paces that were possible for him before he had to turn again.
“Do you know the name of Adonil? Adon?”
At that, the stoneman stopped moving. A few seconds later, without a word, he resumed his prowling.
“Is there anything we can get for you?” asked Huldarion.
“Give me athelid. Or a knife. Or both. Give me a knife, for stars’ sake.” The man put his hands to his head but did not halt his pacing.
“I have no athelid. How often do you need to take it?”
“I need it hours ago,” the man said in a low growl. “Or I need a knife. Just give me a knife. My head is… It’s going to get worse. Give me a knife.”
Huldarion realised that the stoneman was barely holding himself within control. He did not like to imagine the increasing undrugged pain of the stones. Seven of them were drilled into the stoneman’s head. He thought of something else to ask.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen. How old are you, scarface?”
Despite Yaret’s warning, he was taken aback. “Fifteen? You don’t look fifteen. You look thirty.”
“We grow fast,” said the man with a fierce grimace, turning round to walk the other way.
“When did you get your first stone?”
“Ten. Ten is manhood.”
“Ten is boyhood,” said Solon.
The stoneman grinned a dreadful grin. “Not for us. We have no boyhood. We are men from the start, not like you… you… animals. You are too low to ever become men.” And then he stopped again, dropped his head into his hands and gripped it as if he would like to tear the stones out. He was starting to tremble.
“How old is your companion?” asked Huldarion. He pointed to the stoneman on his knees, who still crawled on the ground with a low continuous moaning.
“How would I know? How many stones has he got?”
“Four.”
“So he’ll be twelve or thirteen. I’ve answered you, toadface. Now give me a knife.”
Huldarion took from his pocket the small packet of belvane he had brought with him. Tiburé had assured him that the painkiller from Farwithiel was harmless; none the less he had used it only once or twice, wary of addiction. It seemed effective if not as powerful as ethlon.
Now he poured a full dose of the powder onto a paper and pushed it over to the stoneman.
“What’s that?”
“It will help with the pain.”
“Poison me more like,” the stoneman said. All the same he reached out a trembling hand and grasped the paper, tipping the powder down his throat.
“You see what I mean,” said the Baron, who was standing behind Huldarion. “They must be going crazy. Fifteen! His head’s turned.”
“Possibly.” He gazed at the stoneman. “Kostor. How often do you take your athelid?”
“Dawn and nightfall. Can’t you give me some? This stuff isn’t working.”
“You need to allow it a few minutes,” said Huldarion. “What is in athelid? Its ingredients?”
“How should I know? I just swallow it.”
“How long have you taken it for?”
“Since I reached manhood. Only men can take it. You couldn’t. It would kill you.” Kostor almost spat the words.
“Who gives it to you?”
“Our commanders.”
“I’m guessing it is not a powder. Is it a liquid?”
“It’s a paste. A white paste. It comes in jars.” The man walked towards Huldarion and strained on his rope, as close as he could get to him. He was trembling all over. “Can you find some? Can you get me some? This stuff doesn’t work. It’s rubbish.”
“Where do your commanders keep the athelid?”
“I don’t know. How should I know? They have boxes of it on the carts. Always guarded. So that you can’t get hold of it. It’s only for us. Find me some.” His voice had risen. “I bet you’ve got some. Why don’t you give me it, you mangy dog?”
Huldarion walked away and left him pulling on his rope and shouting.
“Solon,” he said quietly, “Go and find Parthenal, or ask at the infirmary. Get some ethlon, and bring it back here.”
Solon strode away. The stoneman kept shouting. One of the Baron’s men moved forward with a stick, but Huldarion shook his head.
“Leave him. He won’t notice even if you beat him. He’s in enough pain. Clearly what I gave him isn’t strong enough. The consequences of the stones must be extreme.”
The Baron chewed his moustache. “Or he’s so used to this athelid he talks of that nothing else has any effect.”
“That is possible.” Huldarion remembered those dreadful months after the fire… Long afterwards, his body was still burning, burning unstoppably all down one side. He had been given ethlon, but after a while he felt he needed more, and had been denied it. He knew what it was like to beg for relief. But he had never begged for a knife to end it.
Solon soon came hurrying back with a small bottle. “Ethlon. Parthenal says we don’t have much left, so administer it sparingly. Only a few drops.”
“I know.” But he had to enlist the Baron’s men to hold Kostor still while he let those few drops fall into his mouth: the stoneman wrestled as though he would have seized the whole bottle from his hand and drained it.
As Huldarion stepped back Kostor sat down heavily, for the first time, and closed his eyes. He let out a long sigh.
“Does that do the same job as athelid?”
Slowly the eyes reopened. “Don’t talk to me, you piece of northern cow-dung: you runt of a pig’s litter. Go back to your mud where you belong.”
“What is your commander’s name?”
In answer the man spat at him.
“I can’t say that it improves him,” said the Baron, as Huldarion withdrew beyond spitting distance.
“No. A wasted effort, I think.” He addressed Kostor again. “I gave you ethlon. What can you tell me about Adon? Adonil? Where is he?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you, you wipings off a goat’s arse…” The man launched into a stream of curses. Huldarion listened patiently. When there was a pause, he asked,
“How old are you?”
“I told you, I’m fifteen. Are you deaf as well as stupid?”
“Ethlon doesn’t normally make people angry,” said Solon with aloof distaste.
“No,” agreed Huldarion. “This is probably just his normal state. He’s been well indoctrinated against us.”
“Against everybody, if you ask me,” said the Baron. The stoneman was now tugging with renewed vigour and many expletives at the stake that held him down.
Huldarion decided on one more attempt. “What could we do that would persuade you to help us?”
“Nothing, you northern scum. Crawl back to your scummy hole.”
He nodded and turned away. “Let’s try the other one.”
“No point wasting any more ethlon,” objected Solon. “And that one’s a junior. Fewer stones. He won’t know anything in any case.”
“None the less.” This prisoner was more passive, or more far gone. It needed only one man to hold him while Huldarion administered the drops into his mouth.
At first the stoneman still crouched on the ground. Then he straightened up and looked around, with dawning bewilderment in his eyes as if he had just woken.
“What’s your name?” asked Huldarion.
“Don’t tell him! Don’t tell him anything!” yelled Kostor. That was rich, thought Huldarion. The younger stoneman merely blinked at him.
“How old are you?”
The man looked down again, at his hands. He spread them out. Ten, thought Huldarion. The man raised both thumbs. And two.
“You’re twelve?”
The man said nothing. He lay down on the ground as if he wanted to sleep.
“Will you talk to me?”
He closed his eyes again.
So what do I do with this one? thought Huldarion. What do I do with either of them? The ethlon will give them a few hours free of pain. It won’t give me anything.
He looked at the Baron, who shrugged and asked, “You want them?”
“I don’t see what use they will be. You may as well kill the noisy one.”
“I’ll have it done,” the Baron said. “And this one?”
Huldarion hesitated. Twelve. But what was the point in keeping him alive? They couldn’t keep feeding him ethlon twice a day. He’d be better off dying now, while he was free of pain.
“Leave him for the moment.”
“Crazy, aren’t they?” said Solon.
“Or they don’t understand how years work,” said the Baron. “Probably have no idea how old they really are.”
“You’re right,” Huldarion said. “I’ll talk to you again before you leave.” He saluted the old man courteously and strode away.
The two stonemen looked like grown men in size and strength. Yet the quiet one had a quality to his skin – a fineness... But how could it be believed that he was twelve?
And his companion fifteen, a belligerent teenager. A teenager who had been reared to fight and hate his enemy, and nothing else. Possibly years were counted differently in stoneman culture. Except that there was no culture in his experience that didn’t measure years in exactly the same way.
“Solon?” he murmured to his companion. “Don’t mention this to any of the others. Not yet. It may simply be a misunderstanding or a hoax. So say nothing, until we can learn more.”