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

Chapter 41

Yaret lay awake, wondering what to do. Although she was fairly sure that Hilbré too was wakeful, she did not speak for fear of disturbing the other women in the tent.

They were fewer than previously, for tonight there was no Maeneb. Yaret thought that she was probably keeping well away from Gaelera. But there was no Gaelera either. Perhaps she feared another midnight onslaught.

While Yaret too was wary of attack, other, more intrusive worries were interweaving in her mind. She tried to get them into order, to make some useful pattern of their warp and weft, but they would not be controlled. They clashed and clattered round her head like a carelessly beamed loom.

The stones: did they still work? Would they repel the darkburns when the next attack occurred – as it inevitably would? She feared not.

Herself: could she still face even ordinary darkburns after the horror of that gigantic one, the thrashing coils demolishing the roof? She told herself again that it had not been the darkburn but the long drop to the sea that had made her feel so sick and helpless. Then witnessing the women tumbling down, down to hit the waves… Her stomach clenched again at the thought of it, while her leg throbbed painfully, reminding her of that dreadful fall from the high cliffs above the River Thore.

But whatever the reason for her weakness on the roof, she was ashamed of it: of being seen to have succumbed to fear. In any oncoming battles, not only might the stones prove ineffective, but so might she. And in that case why was she here at all?

The stonemen. Another worry. The idea that some of them might be mere children had haunted her ever since she’d found the abandoned stoneman Brael in the desolation of Erbulet. Ten years old, he’d said. Whenever she’d killed a stonemen after that she’d found herself counting stones, and calculating: would that one be fourteen? Twelve? Eleven?

Horrible to think about. Yet she had killed them anyway, despite the nauseous despair such violence brought. What choice was there? To throw down her sword and be slain by an axe? By all accounts, that was what had happened to Zan.

Maybe Zan had willed it to happen. He had lost his hope. He’d seemed to feel dishonoured by surviving the terror that had killed his townsmen. Yaret had tried to tell him there was no need of shame; but she knew the feeling could not easily be assuaged. She had felt it herself, the lonely guilt of being the one who had escaped. She grieved for Zan; and for poor Durba, too.

And the worst thing of all, which should not be set above those deaths, was none the less most grievous to her. She had lost Rothir’s friendship. She knew it, because she’d walked up to him as he’d been checking horses and he had turned away without a word. Rothir could not face her. Parthenal told her, with a rueful shrug, that Rothir could not bear the thought of killing children.

But what else could they do? She could not abandon her vow to her dead townsfolk. That would be to abandon her history and herself.

There was no good solution. Yaret had thought the Athelid – or whatever substance she had dug up in the burial pit – might unlock an answer. But any key eluded her.

She settled her head again upon its roll of clothes and tried to still the inner clamour by concentrating on the gentle sounds around her. The sea was now inaudible. Some bird was wailing with an falling cry, aaaah, down and down; as if in answer, there came a long, far, sigh of wingbeats. Or perhaps that was merely wind in the grass. A nearby canvas flapped. Inside the tent she heard the soft breath of the sleepers; and even softer, closer, someone weeping.

Hilbré. Yaret put out a hand through the cold air to touch her shoulder. At once the sound of weeping stopped. Yaret did not ask her if she was all right, because it was obvious that she was not. Whatever grieved her – the youthful stonemen, or the memories of her own dead child – it would not help to make her talk about it, rousing half the tent to wakefulness by doing so. So she patted the shoulder until Hilbré reached up a hand and patted hers in turn, and then gently removed it.

Odd, the effect of such companionship in sorrow. Knowing that she was not the only one to lie awake, Yaret was able to relax at last, hearing the whisper of high fluttering breezes; and duly fell asleep.

In the morning on emerging from the tent she performed her daily ritual of Haedath, sometimes forgotten lately: touching the earth and then putting fingers to her heart, her lips, her forehead, while murmuring the familiar words in Bandiran.

Hilbré stood waiting till she finished. Then she said, “I’m sorry to have woken you.”

“I was awake already,” said Yaret. “What do you think will happen about the stonemen?”

Hilbré shook her head. “I owe all my allegiance to Huldarion,” she said, “but in this matter, I don’t know.”

Yaret studied her with compassion and respect. A tall, quietly spoken woman, Hilbré commanded her company of Riders without fuss. Although her voice was never raised, her calmness masked a deep determination.

“Will it be discussed?” she asked.

“It will need to be,” said Hilbré. “We need to think of tactics in case some of us refuse to fight.”

Yaret eyed her cautiously. “Does that include you?”

“I don’t know yet. Clearly, you have no such worries.”

“I do have such worries,” Yaret said, “and they kept me awake last night. I worry that it may drive a wedge between the different factions of the Vonn, if some will fight and some will not.”

“Then let us not call them factions,” Hilbré said. “Disagreement need not mean division.” She put out her hand, mirroring last night’s gesture, and Yaret took and shook it.

“Well,” said Hilbré, “we’d better get ourselves in order. We need to gather all the Captains and their seconds before we meet with Kelvha.”

“And pretend that nothing’s happened,” said Yaret.

“That will hardly be possible, when Rhadlun and his henchmen have been trailing us with long ears wagging.”

“Will you tell me how the Captains’ meeting goes?”

“You can come with me,” she said.

“But–”

“No, you’re not a Captain. But you are the representative of your country.”

“A non-existent country,” said Yaret.

“Our valued ally none the less. Jerred will be there, representing Gostard; so why not you?”

“I’m out of favour with Huldarion.”

“Huldarion is out of favour with himself. Come.”

So Yaret went, as the lonely representative of a very small ally. As they approached the gathering in a space outside the tents – a group of perhaps two dozen stern-faced listeners in all – the first voice she heard was Rothir’s.

Hilbré had said Huldarion was angry with him, and yet there he was, earnestly addressing the company of captains. Meya stood behind them being ignored, and looking on tight-lipped.

Yaret felt a surge of pride and sadness. She had feared that Rothir might abandon the Riders; but he was not a sulker nor a skulker. He was speaking now with passion but no anger. It was, of course, the issue of the stonemen that they were debating. Or quarrelling over.

“I suppose you would not kill the darkburns either,” said Huldarion, his words grating. “In case they might be children too.”

“This is not about the darkburns.” Rothir’s deep voice was level-toned. “This is about a people who have been effectively enslaved, exploited–”

“Enslaved? By their own will. Exploited? With their own consent.”

“The fact remains–”

“The fact remains that you choose not to fight. Captains and seconds?” Huldarion called out. “Now that all of you are gathered, let it known that Rothir chooses not to fight. He chooses so-called compassion over loyalty.”

“So-called?” said Rothir.

“You would stand aside and let the stonemen massacre your fellows.”

“I would not.”

“Oh? Then what exactly will you do, if you refuse to kill the enemy?”

“They need not all be killed–”

“What, then?” demanded Huldarion. “Taken prisoner? And if we could stop them from killing themselves – which in the past has proved quite difficult, as you know well – what should we do with several hundred or a thousand or ten thousand captive stonemen?”

“Only the youngest,” said Rothir. “Not all are children.”

Solon leaned forward. “So: do you recommend that in the midst of battle we just stop and count the stones in every head, perhaps asking them to turn around for easier counting; and then kill those with, say, more than ten stones? Or twelve? Fourteen? Where would you draw the line, Rothir?”

“We could draw a line,” said Tiburé from the side. Solon frowned at her in disapproval. “It’s quick enough to see which ones have only two or four stones in their heads, and which have many. I expect ten stones should mean a true age of at least eighteen years: and that seems to be roughly the division between the stoneman foot-soldiers and their commanders. The ones who will not surrender will face death. But we could give the others chance of life.”

Solon turned on her. “Ten stones? And will you do the counting while we fight? Oh, that would suit you, wouldn’t it?”

“That is not what–”

Solon cut across her. “If you can’t talk sense, be quiet, woman. Stonemen never surrender in any case. The thing cannot be done and you should know it.”

“And indeed,” said Thoronal ponderously, “to keep any stonemen captive would be difficult for us. Even a hundred would be too many – we have not the resources nor the manpower to hold them.”

“We shouldn’t be fighting them at all!” cried Landel. Yaret saw that he was almost in tears. Theol, beside him, put a hand upon his arm; but he shook it off.

“If not kept as prisoners, perhaps the stonemen could somehow be disabled,” Rothir said. “What about their drugs? The Athelid?”

“What of it?” snapped Huldarion.

“If we could reach that supply, and cut it off–”

“And have the stonemen die in agony? Is that your best solution?”

“It’s worth exploring, at the least.” But Yaret knew that Rothir was clutching at a straw.

Huldarion’s response was biting. “And how exactly would you infiltrate the stoneman lines to tamper with their Athelid?”

Yaret thought that here she maybe ought to intervene, and say that she might have found one of the drug’s ingredients. She felt for Huldarion, for this was a dreadful dilemma. But he was not handling it well. His fury was alarming and surely disproportionate, for the secret of the stonemen’s age would have had to be revealed at some point; and she sympathised with those who found it difficult. As for herself, she had tried hard not to think about it, because her dead kinsmen called for vengeance.

But for her to speak now would only fuel Huldarion’s ire. And indeed, maybe he knew about the clay already; for had not Meya promised she would tell him?

Now Meya herself spoke, in a clear and measured voice. “My Lords? May I add an observation? Kelvha is strong. We have men to spare. Kelvhan troops can be put at your service, my Lord Huldarion, if you wish to hold stonemen as prisoners.”

“I do not wish it. And I will not be beholden to Kelvha any more than I must.” Yaret saw Meya draw back at this. It was just as well that Rhadlun and his lieutenants were not present.

“Indeed,” said Rothir, “you would be wise not to.”

“And why is that?” asked Meya coolly.

“I have a reason for saying so. But I may impart it only to Huldarion.”

“Oh,” said Huldarion, “and yet you will speak freely to all the Riders when it suits you to spread discord and dissent. Perhaps it was you who spread this news about the stonemen in the first place?”

“That was not me,” said Rothir steadily. “I had no knowledge of it till last night.”

“And yet the foreign archer swears it was not her, and Leor swears it was not him. Strange, is it not, how everyone denies it?”

Yaret saw a few heads turn to glance at her. She wondered whether it was worth denying it again; but held her peace. Instead, she heard Leor’s voice behind her.

“I spoke the truth to you, Huldarion,” the wizard asserted firmly. “You told me of the stonemen’s ages before we ever rode into Kelvha, but I did as you commanded, and mentioned it to no-one. I do not know who passed the news to Zan.”

“And you haven’t cared to find out,” said Huldarion.

“How could I do that?”

“With your wizardry,” said Huldarion, “but no, I forget: you have forsworn your magic, have you not? Except in service to Kelvha. You used it to save Gaelera from the sea.”

“I used it to save everybody from the darkburn,” Leor said, his voice low and grave. “Would you have preferred me not to? You asked me to do something.”

“I did not bid you freeze the ocean. And back there in the Outlands, you raised that darkburn from the pit at Kelvha’s bidding,” said Huldarion.

“I gave him authority to do that,” said Rothir.

Huldarion turned on him. “Yes, I know you did,” he said with bitter, cutting force.

“In your absence.”

“And against my wishes.”

Leor said, “You were far away, so Rothir and I agreed that it was best to do as the Kelvhans asked us.”

“Indeed.” Huldarion’s face had grown dark red all down one side, as if his scar expressed his rage. His voice was tight and thick. “I was not so far away as all that. Yet I was not consulted. I wouldn’t be surprised if you destroyed the darkburn that was held captive inside Kelvha City too, without my knowledge or consent. Was that you, Leor?”

Leor hesitated. He had indeed, as Yaret knew, played a part in that darkburn’s destruction. She caught her breath.

“No,” said Rothir gravely and reluctantly, “that was not Leor. That was me.”

“What?”

“And me,” called out Yaret, so that Huldarion should not think Rothir alone had been responsible. After all, it had not been his idea.

“And Veron,” said Leor. “Veron planned it, because he’d learned that Kelvha City was in danger from the darkburn.”

Huldarion stared at Rothir and then Leor. “So: you had a hand in it! And Veron! Are all my Riders thus disloyal?”

“It was not disloyalty,” Leor protested. “Nerogun could not be allowed to let the darkburn loose within the city.”

“What?” This time it was Meya who exclaimed. “What are you talking about? What has Nerogun to do with it? The darkburn escaped from its captivity.”

“And tell me,” Huldarion almost snarled, ignoring Meya, “did you succeed, Rothir? Did you save the city? Remind me, how did the northern quarter fare? Do you recall those burnt-out streets around the temple? Do you remember that the priest was almost lynched by the Kelvhan mob? Would you have confessed before they strung the man up from his doorway?”

“Huldarion,” said Uld with a note of warning, “we are departing from our purpose. This matter of the darkburn in the city can be discussed later. Right now we need to counsel, do we not, on our best means of battle if the stonemen should attack.”

“There’s no sign of it yet,” said Solon. “According to our scouts, there are no stonemen in the vicinity except those boats; which have stayed off-shore, and they are few. Six vessels, which might hold three hundred men; that’s no army.”

“Then what are they doing there?” asked Tiburé. Solon shrugged.

“But Kelvha are on their way over here,” Uld went on. “Do you not see their flags on the horizon yonder?”

Yaret looked up. A long snake moved across the far side of the Red Roads: a snake made up of cavalry and carts, tall standards waving, livery sparkling in the sun.

“Perhaps an hour away,” said Parthenal.

“But one of them’s much closer,” Uld remarked; for a lone horseman was galloping towards them from the snaking train, water fountaining from his horse’s hooves. A small group followed him some way behind. “An emissary from the High Lords, probably. We have no strategy to offer them for battle – if battle is to come.”

“Battle will be fought,” said Huldarion, who seemed to be fighting some other, inner struggle. “Those who do not wish to fight may, of course, withhold themselves. I cannot compel them.”

“We can be stretcher-bearers,” Rothir said.

“Stretcher-bearers! And carry off those who have been wounded in your stead! You can withdraw altogether.”

“That will not help the Vonnish cause.”

“But that is not your aim, is it, to help the Vonnish cause?”

Rothir looked him straight in the eye. “Huldarion, my aim for the last dozen years has been to help you to regain Caervonn,” he said evenly. “That has not changed. Nor will it. It is unfair of you to cast doubt on my loyalty when you have had so many proofs of it.” He bowed to Huldarion and walked away, the small crowd parting to let him go.

Parthenal and several other people reached out their hands to touch him as he left. Meya looked as if she wished to speak; but after a glance at Huldarion she stayed silent. Yaret felt an almost overwhelming urge to push through the crowd and follow Rothir – to tell him she admired his resolution not to fight: to try and win his friendship back: to regain his esteem, no matter how...

It would not work. For she herself was bound to choose the opposite course. Her dead stood by her shoulder and could not be repudiated. So she stayed where she was.

“And the rest of you?” snapped Huldarion. “Landel?”

“You know what I think,” said Landel, and he too turned away and barged off through the crowd. Yaret saw that his eyes were bright with unshed tears. She felt tears rise in her own eyes in response, in pity for the man’s distress, for the distress of all those Riders who were filled with grief to think they had been killing children.

“And what about you others?” Huldarion demanded, whirling round to face them.

“There is no time for all this now,” insisted Uld. “Kelvha are almost here. Huldarion! Be still.”

The sound of galloping had grown loud, though it was but a single horse that sprang towards them, with the others still following at a distance. Now Yaret could see this was no emissary, but a lord, with a crimson cloak and glittering gear and tassels flying from his horse’s mane.

“The High Prince,” announced Parthenal in astonishment. Yaret wondered if Faldron’s followers had been actually out-ridden or merely needed to appear so.

As he pulled up his stamping warhorse, she could not help admitting that Faldron certainly looked princely – far more so than Huldarion in his drab gear; and she was probably not the only one who thought it. What would the Prince of Kelvha make of this scarred and beggared chieftain, whose troops were now so disarrayed? Whose strongest warrior – apart from Parthenal – had just walked away? As Faldron dismounted with a flourish and a jangle of gold spurs, she was apprehensive.

But Huldarion rearranged his face to meet the Prince. The anger was concealed, his dignity to the fore; and if the darkness of his scars did not abate, his voice held only courtesy as he shook Faldron’s hand.

“Your Highness. My hearty greetings to you. I am glad to see you in such health, and only wish that we had had the chance to prepare a more fitting welcome. But you find us still in council.”

“Council? I see you have been arguing,” said Faldron. Surely, thought Yaret, such a remark must be a breach of diplomatic protocol? But the prince went on, in a tone of almost casual interest, “It is a very novel idea to me, that men may argue freely with their commander. It seems extraordinary. Such a thing would be seen as mutiny in Kelvha, and punishable by death.”

“No doubt,” said Huldarion with cool aloofness.

“In fact, you yourself witnessed some mutiny of the sort, did you not, Huldarion, within the castle? A Kelvhan captain had been accused of failing to guard the darkburn that went missing.”

“Yes, I remember.”

Faldron nodded thoughtfully. “The thing had burrowed its way out, apparently.”

Yaret remembered too, very clearly, and was glad the Prince was not facing in her direction. Huldarion’s coolness increased almost to the point of freezing. “Let me assure you that there is no mutiny here.”

“I expect you wouldn’t want any appearance of it in front of Nerogun,” said the prince. “He’s not far behind me. Luckily I’m less easily shocked.”

“You may be sure that despite some trifling disagreements, which I need not bore you with, the Vonn are in accord,” Huldarion said. “We were discussing strategy in case of further trouble.”

“Like that linwyrm? I heard about the creature, though I’ve–” Faldron paused and frowned. A noise had interrupted him: a long, clear, musical note, low and faintly throbbing.

At first Yaret thought it was someone singing, over by the carts – someone with a particularly bell-like voice. But the sound did not stop to draw breath. It grew and resonated; not a voice after all, although as it swelled it sounded almost like a choir of impossibly pure voices, perfectly aligned. It must be a bell or gong rung by some unseen watcher.

And now she knew the sound. She’d heard it ring at Olbeth’s farm, just before the onslaught of the stonemen.