Darkburn Book 4: The Haunt of Ternss by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 38

 

 

As Rothir rode up to the monastery it looked quite different to yesterday. In the sad, haze-ridden daylight he saw a wildly altered landscape.

The building squatting on the cliff was two thirds gone, a sight that filled him with grim apprehension. The ocean too, looked strange. When he came close he noticed a thin scum of icy fragments on the surface: a greyish, ugly, floating slush that rocked against the shingle. Further out, the bank of fog or steam was heaving up to mingle with the clouds.

He hurried Narba on towards a band of Riders near the ruined town. Some were loading carts or herding horses: a welcome and familiar sight, although appearing more disorganised than usual. Patting his tired horse’s shoulder, he cantered over the last rise, and pulled up abruptly.

Close by was another group. Another familiar and much less welcome scene. The unmistakable shapes of three human bodies, wrapped in their cloaks, lay on the edge of a pit where men worked with spades. A pair of women knelt by the long still figures to carefully adjust the makeshift shrouds.

The women were Tiburé and Yaret. Rothir dismounted and walked over, conscious of his slow reluctant stride towards those who would now stir no more. His errand would have to wait one minute.

On approaching the pit he saw that it was surprisingly deep – so deep that surely it must have been here previously, and had been chosen for the burial for that reason. Rigal and Imbel down at the bottom needed to do little more than loosen enough earth to cover the bodies.

“Who?” he said.

Yaret raised her face to him. She looked tired and ill. “Rothir. You’re unhurt? You found Kelvha?”

“Yes. Who lies here?”

“Durba,” she replied, and turned her face away again.

He was shocked. This was an unexpected grief. He had known Durba moderately well; a pleasant girl, a friend of his sister, a friend of Maeneb. A friend of Yaret.

“I’m sorry. How did it happen?”

“She tried to stab the serpent and didn’t run away in time.” Yaret sighed and stroked the cloak before standing up. “Gaelera seems to think that Durba died to save her.”

“Did she?”

She shook her head. “It’s more likely that she died to prove herself no coward. It hurt her that people might think she was.”

“Nobody thought that,” said Rothir, with pity nudging at his heart. “She was too young.”

“Too young to die, or too young to understand?”

“Both. Who are the others?”

“This is Norgil,” answered Tiburé. “He was in one of the tents. We’re lucky that he was the only one caught there. And the third is not a Rider, but that man from up north, Zan the hunter, the sole casualty of battle.”

“Battle? Against who?” Rothir was alarmed.

“Just a handful of stray stonemen. Solon’s company put them down. But apparently Zan wouldn’t fight.”

“Zan was no warrior,” murmured Yaret, “nor a hunter either. He was adopted by the hunters after the stonemen laid waste to his home.”

“He was adopted by you too, I think,” said Tiburé to her.

“And saved from his captivity by you,” Yaret told Rothir.

Thus are we bound together by a corpse, he thought, and felt a deep regret. He pictured Zan – an earnest, melancholy man, almost embarrassingly grateful for his rescue. But what had Rothir saved him for, in the final reckoning? To end up in this pit?

He knew that Zan and Yaret had been close; indeed, he remembered feeling oddly shut out by that closeness, as if he had any right to an exclusive friendship with her. Now he felt an urge to put an arm around her, as he had once done. Another memory, of a precious, dreadful moment in the darkness of the northern forts came to his mind. He pushed it away. Put it in a box. He had an errand to fulfil.

But still he lingered for few more seconds. “Why would Zan not fight?” he asked.

“Oh,” said Yaret with sudden alertness. “Rigal – what’s that, down by your foot? Let me see.”

She began to clamber down into the pit. Rigal, busy with his shovel, looked up in surprise.

“There’s no buried treasure here,” he told her.

“This band,” she said. “This coloured band.” She pointed to a layer of earth within the pit wall; not orange sandy soil like the earth above it, but a stratum of a pale, almost bluish tinge.

“It’s clay. What of it?”

Yaret put down a hand to examine the clay, and then raised her fingers to her mouth.

“Now what are you doing?” demanded Tiburé.

“May I borrow your shovel?” Yaret asked Rigal.

“Are you planning to set up a pottery? I can dig you out a chunk if you really want.” Rigal set his shovel in the clay.

“Thank you. Do you have something to store it in? A spare waterskin, maybe?”

“Have this one,” said Rothir, throwing it down. “It’s leaky, and I have another. Where’s Huldarion? I need to speak to him.”

“Over by the carts,” said Tiburé. “There’s been a problem.”

“Problem?”

She just threw up her hands and shook her head.

Rothir did not waste time asking more. He remounted Narba; the horse responded with a last gallant effort, swiftly reaching the ruined town and the Riders. He glimpsed Gaelera, sitting on the shaft of Lady Meya’s carriage with a pair of women fussing round her.

And here at the edge of the ruins was Huldarion. He was surrounded by his councillors and others, in the middle of some heated conversation. Rothir strode over, breaking in without preamble.

“Huldarion. There may be stoneman coming from the east,” he said. “There’s a fleet of boats, with red sails, heading round the coast to the Red Roads. Hard to tell how many. But I’ve seen Faldron and sent word to the Kelvhan army to say that we will march to meet them.”

Huldarion turned towards him. Rothir, who had experience in reading that scarred face, was shocked.

Surprise, he had expected. What he had not expected was the fury and frustration that he saw.

Huldarion almost spat at him, so angry was he.

“On whose authority did you go to meet the Kelvhan army, Rothir?”

He wanted to take a step back. But that would be to call in question his own judgement and his standing. He stood firm. “On my own authority,” he said. “We needed to forewarn them of the serpent’s presence.”

“The serpent is gone,” Huldarion said. “Leor saw to it. There was no need.”

“There was great need, it seems to me,” said Rothir. “They needed to be told of such a vicious enemy. How could I predict how soon it would be dealt with? It was a thing unprecedented in my experience.”

“Which counts for little,” said Huldarion, so uncharacteristically unfair a remark that this time Rothir did take a step back and gazed at him in frowning surprise. Meya, who was pushing through the crowd to join Huldarion, also paused in evident shock. The Kelvhan Commander Rhadlun, behind her, raised his eyebrows.

“What else has happened?” Rothir asked, because it was obvious that something had.

“He didn’t tell us!” Landel cried out, from further back. That too was uncharacteristic of the easy-going Landel. “Huldarion knew it and he didn’t tell us!”

“He didn’t tell you what?” Rothir was bewildered.

“That the stonemen are children! We’ve been fighting children! The hunter Zan told Inthed; and he said Huldarion knew it all along!”

Rothir frowned more deeply. This must be nonsense, surely. Zan was dead and could say nothing. The stonemen were undoubtedly full-grown, their physiques and ferocity those of men, not boys. How could they be children?

“I daresay some of them may be as young as eighteen,” he said, “maybe even seventeen, but that’s not–”

“Ten,” said Hilbré in her quiet, low voice. “The ones with two stones are as young as ten. We have been slaughtering children.”

“How can that be?”

“It is a wild and unsubstantiated rumour,” said Huldarion.

“It’s not a rumour!” Landel yelled. Rothir had never seen him so worked up. “Ask him to deny it!”

“I have no definite knowledge of the matter,” said Huldarion.

“Then you did know something!”

Solon put a hand out. “Landel. Modify your tone of voice.”

Huldarion paused. “I heard a story,” he said, with slow reluctance. “I had no evidence.”

Hilbré spoke up again in her calm manner. “The stonewomen living amidst the great stones told us something which in retrospect confirms it. They said their children grew too fast. One said her daughter was but seven, when the girl looked twice that age.”

“So the Lady Meya informed me,” Huldarion said sternly. “She was of the opinion that the women barely understood their numbers: were you not, my dear?”

Meya nodded. “I was. They were completely uneducated.”

“Everyone can count the years,” said Landel. “Is it true?”

Again Huldarion hesitated. “I do not know.”

“You mean it’s true.”

“Landel.” That was Solon, with a warning note.

“My Lord,” said Landel, in an angry drawl.

A muscle in Huldarion’s face twitched. Then he said, “I do not deny that some of the stonemen claim to be younger in years than they appear. The truth of that claim has yet to be determined.”

“I believe it’s true,” said Hilbré.

“And when did you first make this discovery, Huldarion?” That was Theol, Rothir’s own second in command: a steady, unflappable man whose voice now held a shaking edge of anger, or of something else.

Huldarion drew in a sharp breath. Then he answered with clipped, military terseness.

“After the battle of the Outland Forts, the Baron of Melmet took two stonemen as prisoners for questioning. One had seven stones in his head, the other four. When I asked them their ages, they claimed to be fifteen and twelve years old respectively. I had no means of verifying that.”

“Yet you did not think to tell us,” Rothir said. He felt stunned. Worse than stunned. The threat of the boats was momentarily forgotten. He felt as if he were looking down into a pit and seeing something there worse even than a darkburn. It was too dark to be real. Children? Had he been killing children?

“I thought of telling you,” Huldarion said, “and then I thought better of it, until it could be proven.”

“What proof do you need?”

“Something more concrete than two ignorant prisoners deprived of their Athelid.”

Rothir, through his shock, sensed that there was something more. “But Huldarion, why did you ask the prisoners’ ages in the first place? Did you already guess at this?”

Huldarion glanced away into the distance. “I had some inkling. The archer Yaret said she’d killed a stoneman up in Erbulet, far in the north, who claimed to be only ten. I found that barely credible.”

“Everything is credible where Adon is concerned,” said Delgeb roughly.

“I did not think it possible, though Leor said it could be done by wizardry.”

“So Leor knew as well as Yaret?” Theol said.

Rothir’s sensation of unreality grew. The pit that had just opened beneath his feet yawned abruptly wider, so deep and dark it seemed to break his world in two. Then and Now, irreconcilable. There was no going back to Then. He felt as if he had been paddling in an ordinary shallow sea, when all the while the waves had been gathering themselves into a whirlpool to drag him dizzyingly down to unknown depths.

And he was being dragged now, down and down.

“Yaret?” he said, his voice strange to himself. “In Erbulet?”

“It happened before she came to meet us at the Outland Forts. She told me of it when she arrived.”

Parthenal said, “It doesn’t change much. It doesn’t change the fact that the stonemen are intent on killing us if we don’t kill them first. We’re not the aggressors in this war.”

“Hear, hear,” said Crade. “We have to fight or die.”

“I will not fight children,” Delgeb said distinctly. “Some of these are younger than my son. Is it their fault that they get their heads drilled full of stones and are pitched headlong into battle? They’re fodder for Adon’s designs.”

“That was always the case,” said Uld. “But it makes it more difficult for us.”

Solon said, “If a dog leaps up to bite your throat, does it not need to be put down regardless of its age?”

“These are not dogs!” cried Landel. “These are children!”

“These are stonemen,” said Huldarion, his voice grating, “and we know their nature: we know their viciousness regardless of their age. Would you stand still in battle and have them mow us down? Zan stood still, and they mowed him down. His body lay amongst the enemy corpses.”

“They are still our enemy. That doesn’t change. I do not care a jot how old they are,” said Crade.

“I care more than a jot,” said Landel.

“But you are not head of the army,” said Huldarion.

Rothir’s thoughts, like drumbeats, pounded through his head. They were children. Yaret knew. Through the drumbeats, more dispassionately, he observed that as well as being angry, Huldarion was probably in pain; the scars that clothed his left-hand cheek and neck and arm were fiery red as if he had been newly branded.

“I should like to know,” Huldarion went on, “who told this story to the hunter Zan, who then saw fit to spread it and cause chaos, putting Riders’ lives at risk.”

“Zan’s dead,” said Theol. “We cannot ask him now.”

“Indeed, we cannot, conveniently. But one person certainly knew: the archer Yaret.” Huldarion’s voice was hard and bitter. “I commanded her to tell no-one. But she was close with Zan.”

“Presumably the Baron of Melmet also knew,” put in Uld, “if that pair of stonemen were his prisoners.”

“He would hardly go blabbing to his troops. I want to speak to Yaret,” said Huldarion harshly.

“She’s burying Zan,” said Rothir, his lips numb. “I passed her as I came here.”

“Never mind her now,” said Solon. “We have other matters to attend to. Rothir: you said you have just met with High Prince Faldron?”

“Have you indeed?” said Commander Rhadlun, with more interest than he had shown at the story of the stonemen. “I trust you planned to notify me of that. Where did you find the Kelvhan army?”

“I saw only Prince Faldron, with some thirty men,” answered Rothir. “He was on an expedition of his own. But I hope that having seen the fleet of stonemen’s ships approaching, he will by now have rejoined the main body of his army. I have told him that we’ll march that way as quickly as we can.”

“You had no authority to tell him that. What! Do you lead the Riders of the Vonn now?” exclaimed Huldarion.

“Of course not,” said Rothir, both grave and alarmed. His mind was dazed; but he knew the most important thing was to keep his temper. Meya put a hand on Huldarion’s arm. Huldarion shook it off.

“This fleet you say you saw–”

“That Faldron saw also.”

“The High Prince Faldron, to you,” said Rhadlun.

“I beg your pardon,” said Rothir, with a slight bow. “My haste was greater than my care in speech.”

“Your haste was greater than your wisdom,” said Huldarion.

Rothir did not immediately answer. After a few seconds he said, “Perhaps. We saw some dozen ships, with red sails, coming from the east. More may have been waiting further round the headland. They might not have been stonemen but they cannot be ignored.”

“I think,” said Commander Rhadlun to Huldarion, “we should join our Kelvhan army now. Even if this little fleet does not pose much threat, it’s high time, is it not? This jaunt of yours is over.”

“Indeed that was always the Lord Huldarion’s plan,” put in Meya with dignity.

Huldarion’s lips compressed. Then with suppressed feeling he said, “Parthenal. Bring me Yaret.”

“We don’t know it was her who spread the rumour,” Rothir said, although an inner cry was pounding at his head. She knew! She knew! No matter who she told, she knew!

“Who else could it have been? Better you had never saved her life,” Huldarion said wrathfully, “than let her live to bring such discord to our people.”

That brought a general gasp throughout the crowd. Unfair, unfair, thought Rothir. He saw Parthenal looking at him. Indeed, all the Riders were watching him, to see how he would answer.

Better to stay silent than to fling back fury and resentment. So he gazed steadily at Huldarion without uttering a word.

“You flouted my authority,” said Huldarion thickly. “Just go.”

Rothir turned round and strode away. He would not show the anger, shock, resentment that engulfed him. Worse than a darkburn’s heat, because he could not fight it. He could not take a sword to his own passion and cut it into harmless pieces.

Parthenal hurried away from the crowd and caught him up as he strode away.

“You did right not to respond,” said Parthenal quietly. “I have never seen Huldarion so thrown off balance. In truth I don’t understand it.”

Rothir did not think that he could safely speak. He walked up to Narba, who was waiting on the outskirts of the temple, and put his hand upon the horse’s solid shoulder. If only I could be a horse, he thought, and not be assailed by these emotions, this weight of knowledge; the horror of Huldarion’s contempt.

“You heard this story of the stonemen?” he said. The words stuck in his throat; they came out with a rasp.

“Yes, earlier today,” said Parthenal. “I heard it first from Theol. I don’t know who told Zan. He wasn’t the only one to throw down his weapons; but he was the only one who paid with his life.”

Rothir glanced at him. “What about you? How do you feel about it?”

“It makes no difference to me,” said Parthenal.

Rothir nodded. He had expected this answer. There was no sentiment in his friend: Parthenal was a ruthless warrior.

Yet he felt bound to object. “You really don’t care if your enemies are children?”

“If anyone tries to kill me, I kill him first,” said Parthenal matter-of-factly.

A ruthless warrior, yet such a tender carer for the sick, thought Rothir. He is a walking contradiction. As is Huldarion. A considerate leader who rejects his loyal follower.

Resentment rose again, thick in his throat. He tried to quell it. Surely Parthenal was right: Huldarion had been thrown off balance. Shaken by the giant darkburn and the seeming mutiny within his ranks, he had picked on Rothir as the nearest, easiest target.

Yet resentment would not be denied its rights. My experience is worth little? I have flouted your authority? You cannot appoint captains and then deny them any power to exercise their judgement. You should not appoint them only to denigrate them when you are caught out in a mistake.

You made a mistake, Huldarion, he said silently, in concealing such dreadful knowledge from your people: and you were caught. So now you pay the price.

“We have killed children,” he murmured to Parthenal. “Is this what the Vonn are? The slayers of children? Is this the wave of glory on which we are to ride into Caervonn?”

“Rothir,” said Parthenal firmly. “Listen to me, dwarf. This is our enemy. They look like men. They fight as men. When they attack us, what else can we do?”

Rothir nodded, not in agreement but in recognition of the problem’s hopelessness.

No wonder all the stonemen hated us, he thought: how could they feel differently? Bred to fight, maimed and drugged and ignorant of any other matter, they were thrust into the thick of battle. They had no chance at any decent life before we took it from them. But we were ignorant too, as ignorant as they are.

Parthenal was gazing at the ruined monastery, the broken silhouette against the dull streaked clouds.

“It was a surprisingly comfortable place,” he said reflectively, “for that one night.”

“For you, maybe,” answered Rothir. For him, all comfort had now gone. “We were kept in the dark. Yaret knew. She kept it secret.” Not only that. She had killed stonemen knowing they were children. He could allow that ruthlessness in Parthenal, and did not understand why it should matter so in Yaret. Yet he felt his face, his body, his whole consciousness, turn away in lonely grief and loss and disappointment.

“You go and gather up your company, Rothir,” said Parthenal gently. “They need your steadying hand.”

He nodded, for he knew his duty, although he did not want to do anything but sit down and maybe weep. However, that was something he had never done. Or hardly ever – he recalled, fleetingly, a dark night by the swirling River Thore – and with that memory of darkness almost blinding him he swung Narba’s head towards the camp.

“Good horse,” he said. “Good old friend.” Narba at least had never failed him.

There were always tasks. And he knew from long experience that tasks gave him the best alleviation of such moods. His company of Riders was waiting for his orders, for the management of gear and horses before they could ride out.

But then: ride out to what? To return to the Red Roads, like stumbling people walking backwards. Back, to meet the coming stonemen. Back, to hunt and slaughter children.