Chapter 41
There was now a new addition to his mental list of tasks. After a little thought he dismissed Solon, summoned Delgeb and Maeneb, and gave the two women the errand.
It was to ride out to the far forts where the stonemen had been quartered, and which, to the best of their knowledge, were now abandoned. Huldarion explained what he wanted them to search for: jars of a white paste, once stored in boxes.
“It’s athelid,” he said. “The substance that the stonemen drug themselves with. I want to know what’s in it.”
“You’re hoping they’ve left some behind?”
“It’s a long shot. Don’t put yourselves in danger. I’m hoping Maeneb will be able to detect any stoneman presence. If you do, then come away.”
“We can deal with the odd few of them,” said Delgeb. “If there’s any greater number, we’ll withdraw. Can we take a third person? Shebel has a good knowledge of herbalism.”
This was agreed; and the three female Riders soon cantered away. It would be several hours before they returned. Meanwhile, Huldarion went to check the horses. Most were unhurt: their numbers tallied closely with the figures he had calculated last night. It was pleasing.
He noticed a couple of other horses there which did not belong to the Riders. They were fine Kelvhan steeds, from which the gilded saddles and trappings were being stripped by a Kelvhan stableman.
“What’s wrong with those?”
“Nothing, sir,” said the stableman, pausing in his work, “save that their riders died atop ’em. It’s bad luck. We can maybe sell them on back home in Kelvha, but nobody here will want to ride them now.”
“So who do they belong to?”
“The families. But I have authority to sell them.”
“Good. Walk them up and down for me. If they’re sound I’ll take them off your hands,” Huldarion said. The man obeyed. He seemed to hold Huldarion in some awe, for he accepted the price offered – low but not unreasonable – and was even persuaded to throw in one of the gilded saddles without quibbling.
The quiet grey would do for Sashel, who had lost his steed, Huldarion decided. The larger and more impressive black horse, with its embossed and decorated saddle, he planned to offer to the Baron in exchange for Poda. He arranged to collect it later on.
Then it was time to walk over to the quarter-master for yet more negotiations about provisioning: he had the numbers ready in his head. His marshal of resources, Vaneb, had stayed behind in Thield since she was pregnant. Huldarion supposed that he should have appointed another, yet he did not dislike the task himself.
That reminded him of his next task: to visit the young Prince. So he summoned Thoronal, and together they paid a call to Prince Faldron’s quarters. They found him sulky and restless, wandering aimlessly around the fort with Shargun in tow while his quantities of baggage were being packed up.
“Your Highness,” said Huldarion with a bow, “We are loth to leave you with no more than a brief farewell.”
The prince brightened. He waved a servant over: spiced drinks were served, and this time Huldarion was invited to sit down. Shargun raised an eyebrow, but Huldarion did not care. He and Thoronal sat on the thickly padded couch which had been carried all this way in Kelvha’s carts.
Although four soldiers stood guard behind them, Faldron spoke as eagerly as if they were not there. He wanted to talk about the battle, but Huldarion diplomatically gave the conversation a more general turn. It ranged from military tactics to horsemanship and weaponry, in all of which Faldron had obviously been well schooled.
“I wish I could have played a greater part in the battle yesterday,” he remarked wistfully.
“That chance will no doubt come,” Huldarion said.
“Yes. Once I am High King I will able to go on the field when I choose.”
Huldarion trusted that the Prince would not start a war to give himself the opportunity. He said, smiling, “The strongest king is he who listens to his counsellors.” This was a sop to Shargun, who sat in silent watchfulness. And the four impassive guards against the wall were no doubt taking in every word to report back to their fellow-soldiers.
The Prince said, “I would have thought the strongest king is he who is not afraid to act.”
“That is true,” said Huldarion. “The problem can sometimes be how to act in the right way – and that is best decided with the aid of counsellors.”
“I don’t always care for the advice of my counsellors.” Although this was said without any glance at Shargun, Huldarion immediately sensed a pitfall.
“I think the first task of a king must always be to acquire wisdom,” he said. “When you return to Kelvha, what will be the first thing you wish to do?”
“Oh! Go hunting. See my falcons. Kiss a few maids,” said the Prince.
Huldarion laughed. “So acquiring wisdom will wait a little longer?”
“There will be time enough for all that weighty stuff,” said Faldron. His wish to kick against the traces was understandable, thought Huldarion, especially if he had been kept trammelled in the castle with his tutors. But it did not bode well for Kelvha.
On the other hand, if his counsellors were anything like Shargun they would stay as close as leeches even once he was High King. After a few more courteous words, Huldarion rose to take his leave.
“You will come to Kelvha, won’t you?” said the Prince.
“That would certainly be my wish,” he said, “once victory in this part of your realm is accomplished. But the matter is in your hands. I have no desire to force an invitation.”
“Of course you will come,” said Faldron.
Huldarion bowed. “I possess few treasures,” he said, “but the friendship of Kelvha would be amongst the greatest I could own. Of the few I do possess, let me give you this parting gift as a token of goodwill and gratitude.”
He produced a badge which had belonged to his father. It was a wrench to give it away – he had so little in the way of heirlooms; but it was necessary.
“That is a handsome thing,” the Prince said appreciatively, studying the jet and gold-work. He offered no gift in exchange. Huldarion had not expected that he would.
On his way out he stopped and looked at one of the guards.
“I saw you fell two stonemen with one stroke,” he said. It had been a phenomenal stroke. He said nothing more, for it would not do to praise the man more than his master; but at least the soldier knew he had been recognised. That too would get back, that Huldarion noticed the men as well as their leaders. He left the fort with a reasonable degree of satisfaction.
“I hope I did what was required,” said Thoronal, when they were a safe distance away.
“You did exactly what was required: you looked noble and grave, and gave the Prince’s views your careful attention. And just the right amount of flattery. I think what he wants more than anything is to be taken seriously.”
“That will certainly happen when he becomes High King.”
“And he could so easily have become a corpse, like those ones over there.” Out on the plain the covered bodies were being laid out in sad rows, in readiness for burial. “He owes us his life,” said Huldarion.
“Do you think he knows? Did he even realise his danger – or does he think he escaped through his own wonderful skills in battle?”
Huldarion considered. “He must know. He’s not a fool. But he can’t admit it. And we must never mention it.”
The series of burials was the next task to be gone through; and while the most important, it was also the least pleasant. It had been at the back of his mind all day.
Melmet held their ceremonies first, out on the muddy field where the long pits had been dug. All the Riders of the Vonn who were fit enough to attend did so; and Veron appeared from somewhere to join the group of Iobens. Huldarion noted that Yaret also stood beside them. He was saddened that only one Kelvhan commander, Rhadlun, turned up at the graveside with a token handful of his men.
The many Melmet casualties were placed into a common grave and songs sung over them, the soldiers’ untrained voices ringing out clear and heartfelt in remarkable harmony through the cold still air. Although Huldarion could not make out all the words, the underlying emotion was plain. As he stood opposite the Baron with the grave between them, he saw the old man weep. So many dead. But not for nothing.
After the Baron’s hoarse address he himself said a few words about their loyal gallantry, which he honoured and which would not be forgotten. Then Rhadlun spoke of the honour of fighting alongside Kelvha – as if the privilege were all Melmet’s. Huldarion respected Rhadlun’s abilities, but this annoyed him.
Thankfully the Kelvhan commander deemed it unnecessary to add any of his own words to the Ioben burials. These were fewer, and there was no singing. Veron stepped forward to say a few terse words about how these men would soon be riding over the great fields spread between the stars. A surprisingly poetic concept from Veron’s mouth; Huldarion had seldom seen the man so serious. One of the huntsmen uttered what sounded like a prayer in his own language, during which they were all very still. Then Yaret said another, which seemed to be a variation on the first, and during which they were, if possible, even stiller. At the end the silence felt as if it stretched across to the horizon.
Finally the first spadeful of earth was thrown in, breaking the spell; and as more spadefuls followed, and men began to turn away, he lingered, watching. There should be more than this to a life. More than a few words and a bowed head. But what more could you do?
The crowd was moving to the next line of newly-dug graves, and as he walked across he braced himself, for next came the burial of his own people. Twenty-seven men and twelve women. It could have been so many more; yet thirty-nine was bad enough.
As he stood by the graveside with his captains, for once he felt the need to neither feign nor to disguise emotion. If it hardly showed in his face, he knew it sounded in his voice. He spoke of each of the dead Riders by their name: their qualities, their deeds; and found it amongst the most difficult things that he had ever done. It was a battle with himself.
Afterwards while the Riders sang the Vonndal – so sad, so slow – he did not even try to mime. He had to keep his mouth clenched shut. This was terrible. He had put this grief away from him all night and day and now it leapt out like a darkburn from its cage, nearly destroying him.
Don’t think of the darkburns, he commanded himself. Think of your other Riders, the ones who are still alive and suffering too. After the song, as the soil was tumbled in, he saw that Parthenal wept. Ikelder also, furtively. Even that dry man Uld wiped his cheek. Rothir, a few yards away, did not weep but looked as clenched as Huldarion was himself.
Yaret had walked over to stand beside the Riders, although to the best of his knowledge she knew none of those who had died. She glanced up at Rothir.
“Don’t worry,” he heard Rothir say. “I feel this.”
“I know,” she answered.
Huldarion was not sure what was meant. But afterwards when he stepped over to embrace Rothir, he felt it was some relief to both of them. Then he went to embrace Thoronal, and Parthenal, although perhaps – but forget that, no matter now – and then Solon, and would have embraced Veron had not the man looked so alarmed and backed away. That almost made Huldarion laugh despite his agony of mind. There were twelve widows he would have to talk to eventually. Three widowers. Several children.
Gradually the crowd trickled back towards the forts. He was the last to leave, and followed the others sombrely, musing about children. Although he did not particularly wish to, he walked alone over to the Melmet camp to have another look at the captive stonemen.
The older one had gone; there was nothing but a bloodstain on the ground where he had been. The younger one was curled up on the grass. At least he had eaten the food provided for him. His eyes were open.
With a nod to the guard, Huldarion approached and squatted down near the stoneman to address him.
“How do you feel?”
The man – boy? – gazed at him sideways, from the ground.
“What is your name? I am Huldarion.”
“Girik,” said the stoneman. He did not move. He sounded lost and dazed.
“Tell me about yourself, Girik.”
“What do you mean?”
“Where were you born?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where were you brought up? Who did you live with?”
“I lived with the others, in the dormitory.”
“Where was that?”
“It was by the sea,” said Girik. “It was the place of terns. There were lots of them.”
“Did you like being by the sea?”
The lost eyes looked into some far remembered distance.
“I liked... the sound of it. Sometimes it roared like a lion and sometimes it just breathed like a…”
“Like a sleeper,” said Huldarion.
“Yes. When it was asleep they let us go swimming. I saw a dolphin. It came right up to me.”
“I have never seen a dolphin that close up.”
“It was big. It swam with me. I was good as swimming.” He still lay with his head upon the ground, staring at some remembered ocean.
“What about your parents? Your mother?”
“I don’t remember. She was… tall… I think.”
Huldarion swallowed. “And when did you get your first stone?”
“Two years ago. You have to be ten.”
“Ten summers?”
“Ten years,” said the boy. “You get two the first year, and one or two the next year. I still have one to go this year. I won’t get it now, will I?” and to Huldarion’s dismay, a tear ran down his adult, yet unbearded cheek.
“Do they hurt you?”
“Yes, a bit, when they go in. But they give you athelid. You have to have the stones to be a man. Only real true men have them.” He stared at Huldarion now from the ground. “So you’re not. What happened to your face?”
“A darkburn,” said Huldarion.
“That’s why you need the stones. They give you power. So the darkburns can’t hurt you.”
“But the stones hurt you.”
“Only when you don’t get the athelid in time.”
“Do yours hurt you now?”
“Not now. But I’m tired. Can I have some more tonight?”
He took a deep breath. “If you will tell me what you know of your commanders, and of Adon, or Adonil.”
“I won’t tell you any of that.”
Huldarion nodded and stood up. “Very well. I’ll come back later.” He turned to the man who stood guard nearby. “See that he has food and water. I’ll return.”
Then he left. He would have to wait until the stones began to hurt again before his next attempt. He was not looking forward to it.
Meanwhile he went to visit his Riders who were still in the infirmary. Leor was there, sitting by the side of a young female Rider. He went through his memory and retrieved her name before he walked up to them.
“Durba,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“I… I…”
He waited. She stammered.
“She’s having difficulty in speaking,” said Leor. “And she hasn’t slept since yesterday.”
He noticed that Durba was shaking slightly, especially her hands. “I expect you must be very tired,” he said, “but that too much has been going on to allow you to sleep.”
Then he motioned Leor aside. “Head injury?”
“No injury at all,” said Leor, “except to her sense of how things ought to be. Maeneb said she seemed to find the battle exciting at first. Then all at once it became real.”
“Battle shock,” said Huldarion. He had seen it before and knew of no cure for it other than time; and peace. “She had better go back to Thield with the other injured.”
“She refuses.”
“Does she? How, if she can’t talk?” He was sharp.
“You try,” said Leor. He looked worn out.
“I will.” He returned to Durba’s side and told her his decision. “You need to go back home to Thield with the wounded. There is no shame in it.”
She shook her head vehemently. “U… u… u…”
“But there you can rest and recover.”
“U… u…u…” Now her hands were shaking badly too.
“Well, well,” said Huldarion, at a loss for once. “Try and sleep, and then we’ll see.” He looked at Leor. “What about you? Have you slept?”
“A little,” said Leor. It was probably a lie.
“Then you must. Go and eat and then find somewhere to lie down, and rest.” He wished he could make his word his command. No sooner said than instantly obeyed. But if a wizard couldn’t put himself to sleep, what hope had he?
Leaving them, he crossed the hall to visit Sashel, and to tell him about the burials. He described the ceremony and promised that later he would walk down with him to see Gordal’s grave. Sashel nodded. His face was very pale but he said the dizziness had almost passed. He would be ready to ride out with them on the following day.
Privately Huldarion thought he would be better travelling in one of the provision carts. However, he said merely,
“I have a new horse for you, Sashel; it’s Kelvhan, a good-looking grey mare. I don’t know what it will be like to ride, though. I thought I’d seat Veron on it to try it out, while you stay with the carts at first. Veron seems to enjoy wayward horses; and nobody will mind if he gets thrown.” There was the ghost of an answering smile.
Then he went to fetch the other Kelvhan horse, the showy black one. After satisfying himself that both it and its tack were gleaming he led it over to the Melmet camp and offered it formally to the Baron. The gift went down well; the Baron’s eyes gleamed more brightly than the golden fastenings on the saddle, and Huldarion returned to his own camp leading a weary Poda.
On the way he saw three riders galloping towards him over the plain, and waited for them to arrive.
It was Delgeb and her two companions. They drew up and reigned in their horses. Delgeb reported seeing few signs of life at the farthest forts, apart from a small group of stonemen whom they had disturbed in the act of removing their dead compatriots’ stones from their skulls.
“We only managed to shoot three of them,” said Maeneb. “The others got away.”
Huldarion refrained from the question that leapt unwanted into his head, about how many stones each man had worn. He said, “Did you find anything else?”
Delgeb took out a leather pouch, which she opened to reveal a small lump of creamy paste.
“We saw no jars or boxes, but we did find this. We scraped it off the flagstones in one of the forts, where it must have fallen,” she said. “Shebel reckons it’s athelid.”
“It certainly has ethlon as one of its components,” said Shebel, “although I’m not sure about the others. There’s probably more than one additional ingredient. The paste smells a little like zalephony, but I’m not aware that zalephony has any pain-killing properties. Maybe it’s simply there to make it palatable.”
“Possibly,” said Huldarion, although he doubted it. Stonemen would not care if athelid were palatable or not, so long as it worked. “Thank you. Let’s go and try it out. Come with me, if you will.”
So they accompanied him back to the captive stoneman, Girik, for the third time that day.
It was now ten hours or so since he had had the ethlon, and he was showing signs of distress. No longer lying on the ground, he was pacing to and fro as the other stoneman had been earlier, his hands clasped to his head. When he saw Huldarion he almost threw himself at him like a dog on a leash. The tether held him; and his guard pushed him back.
“Have you got it?”
Huldarion showed him the contents of the pouch. “Is this athelid?”
He gasped. “Ah! That’s it. Give me that. I need it.” He reached out frantically for the pouch; but Huldarion held it back, beyond his arm’s length.
“Some information first,” he said. “Adon. Where is he?”
“He was up in the snow with us,” said Girik. “They showed us him. He’s a god.”
“A god?”
“He has a shining face and a triple row of stones around his head. No-one ever had so many. That’s how we can be sure he is a god. Now give me the athelid.”
“What did Adon say?”
“Stuff about fighting and following. How we can–” He wrinkled his brow. “I can’t remember.”
“You must remember. Otherwise I give you none of this.”
Girik gripped his head again. “He said, he said – I know, he said we can win in the north and then go home to the south and win there and have all the land for ourselves between the Darkburn and the sea. We had to cheer. I mean we cheered. Now can I have it?”
“Not yet.” Between the Darkburn and the sea: that meant Caervonn. “What else?”
“I don’t remember anything else! And it’s hurting! You said you’d give it to me!”
“Where did Adon go?”
“I don’t know.” And now the man began to cry.
“Give him some of the athelid,” said Huldarion to Shebel. He had no stomach for any more of this.
“How much do you think he ought to have? It’s hard to judge,” she said, looking at the pouch.
“Ask him.”
“How much of this do you take?” she asked the weeping Girik.
“All of it! Give me all of it!”
Delgeb shook her head. “No, don’t do that.”
“If we give you all of it,” said Huldarion to the stoneman, “there will be none left for tomorrow.”
“I don’t care. Just give it me.”
Shebel put some of the paste on her finger – about a quarter of the whole. “Is this the right amount?”
“More! More!”
“Careful he doesn’t bite your hand off,” Delgeb said.
“This is all you’re getting,” Shebel told him. She held out her hand and Girik held out his until he could wipe his fingers against hers. He put the paste to his mouth. Seconds later his eyes closed. His face relaxed, and he sat down heavily on the ground.
“What will you do with him tomorrow?” Delgeb asked.
“I don’t know yet,” said Huldarion. “There may be something more that he can tell us; I need to think about it. But I’m not hopeful.”
And then we may just have to kill him anyway, he thought, before we leave. Before the pain takes over once again. Even if we take him with us, we only have enough athelid for three more doses. And we need what’s left of our ethlon for our wounded. Kinder to kill him. The Baron found somebody to do that for him. I’ll have to do it myself. A captive. Twelve. Not fair to ask anybody else.
But in the end the athelid carried out that task for him. It must have been too high a dose by far; for in the morning Girik lay curled up, smiling, dead.