Stonewielder (53 page)

*

Suth could stand; if he gritted his teeth hard enough and concentrated. Urfa’s binding was as tight as a winding-sheet and she’d wrapped with it a poultice that stank of fat and urine and other things he didn’t want to think about. But it was supposed to be proof against the wound’s suppurating.

He was reserve now, of course. Rear rank. Bending over stiffly, he picked up a spear. The front lines had all scavenged shields and now fought a stubborn defence. All except the Adjunct, who watched from behind, ever ready to push in where needed. No archer could reach them now, unless he dared step out from the enemy’s front lines. In which case they still had their crossbows.

When the Adjunct happened to be standing near him, Suth asked, ‘Do we retreat?’

The young man smiled behind his moustache. ‘Not unless we can take our wagons with us.’

This close Suth wondered why he had ever considered the officer young. He was no younger than himself, surely, nor a good portion of the entire army. This was a young person’s calling. Probably it was the rank: the fellow was slim in years to be second in command to a High Fist.

The Adjunct’s gaze narrowed, the cross-hatching of wrinkles all around almost hiding the eyes – a plainsman’s gaze. ‘Trouble,’ he breathed, then, gesturing, ‘Goss, Twofoot, to me.’

Suth strained to look: men in dark robes advancing. Pressure eased along the twelve-foot width as the Roolian soldiers backed off. Four more priests of the Lady, just as at the temple in Aamil. He remembered his throat constricting then, his stolen breath. Would that happen again? And would the Adjunct be able to counter it as before?

The four stamped their iron-shod staves to the timbers and stood waiting. Flanked by his sergeants the Adjunct stepped out to meet them.

‘I am Abbot Nerra,’ one of the priests announced. He did not wait for the Adjunct to reply; indeed, it was clear that he did not want any response. ‘You are trespassing. Retreat from this valley and you will be unmolested. You have the word of the Lady. Such is her infinite leniency and forbearance.’

‘Generous of the Lady to offer territory we already hold,’ the Adjunct answered.

The Abbot appeared to have expected such an answer. ‘Surrender now or be driven before the Lady’s wrath like ash before the wind.’

‘Is this the leniency or the forbearance?’

The Abbot was untroubled. ‘
Her
patience is without end. Mine is not.’ He signalled to his fellows.

At the same instant the sergeants signed as well and from behind the upturned wagons saboteurs jumped up to fire crossbows. Multiple bolts slammed into the priests, some passing through entirely to speed on and strike soldiers behind.

The four staggered but none fell. The Abbot raised his eyes and something more seemed to glare from their depths that fixed them all with their rage. ‘Blasphemers! Your essences will writhe in agony!’

Energy detonated between the priests in crackling arcs and filaments. The timbers shuddered as if pounded by a charge of cavalry. Everyone flinched: the Adjunct, the sergeants, even the Roolian troops. The robes of the priests began to smoulder and smoke. A chain of the energy lashed out, striking one wagon in an explosion of shards sending men and women flying. Suth remembered the spear in his hand and took one step to launch it. The leaf-blade disappeared into the torso of a priest while the haft immediately burst to ash. The priest seemed unaffected by what was certainly a mortal wound.

The four advanced a step, staves held horizontal before them. The wagon Suth hid behind slid backwards, almost knocking him from his feet. He staggered, yelling his pain with every hop of his injured leg. Another chain of energy lashed the lines and soldiers fell, smouldering, charred and withered.

Then the Adjunct lunged forward, rolling. A priest fell, his leg severed at the knee. Another swung his stave and the Adjunct caught the blow on his sword, two-handed. The stave was severed in a blast that sent the youth spinning to slam into the bridge’s side. The eruption flattened a score of the nearest Roolian soldiers as well. That priest fell, his arms and chest in bloody ruins, his hands gone. The remaining two pushed onward, seemingly uncaring and unaffected. The wagon slammed backwards into Suth once more.

‘Drop!’ Urfa called, and she straightened to throw a fist-sized orb. Suth hunched behind the wagon. Normally the crack of the munition would have made him flinch, but now the blast was lost in
the maelstrom of wrath unleashed before them. When the woman peered up again she gaped, snarling, ‘
Shit!
’

He peered, an arm shielding his eyes, to see the two still advancing despite countless slashing wounds – one’s face a bloom of blood from a mortal head wound. The Adjunct appeared to be unconscious. Suth hobbled over to him, and found Goss examining him. ‘What do we do?’ Suth shouted.

‘Don’t know!’

The pale yellow blade lay on the timbers. Both Suth and Goss eyed it. ‘Should I touch it?’ Suth asked.

‘Don’t know!’

‘Oh, to the Witches with it!’ Suth picked it up; it was warm in his hand and not quite as heavy as an iron weapon. Nothing seemed to happen to him. The curved blade looked more golden than pale yellow, translucent at its edge. He turned to the remaining priests. They were ignoring them, intent upon forcing everyone back up the bridge. He glanced at Goss, who wore a thoughtful frown.

‘Maybe I should …’ the sergeant offered.

Well, he
was
wounded. A great yell snapped their attention to the priests. A soldier had leapt from cover swinging a two-handed sword. The trooper wore a long mail coat and a helm whose visor was hammered into the likeness of a snarling beast. Suth recognized her as an officer he often saw with Fist Rillish. Her heavy blade crashed into a blocking stave, triggering an eruption of energy that crackled and lashed all about the bridge.
But she hadn’t come with them! What was she doing here?

A second arcing blow slipped under the stave and slit one priest across the gut almost to the spine. A spin and she brought the weapon swinging up to catch the second at the groin, tearing a gash up to his sternum. Even then neither priest fell. Smoke now plumed from them as if driven by a ferocious wind; it appeared to Suth that they’d been dead for some time. Enraged, her mail blackened and scoured by the energies, the woman kicked one of the priests. He fell corpse-stiff in a clatter of dry limbs.

The crackling power snapped out of existence; the staves lay consumed to blackened sticks, iron fittings melted. A crowd of troopers from the Fourth washed over them all. They came dragging carts and equipment that they heaved up into a barricade. Suth and Goss helped the groggy Adjunct up.

Goss offered a wink. ‘Have to be the hero another time, hey?’

Suth examined the pale blade. ‘I guess it takes more than just a sword.’ He picked up a torn cloak and used it wrap the weapon.

The sergeant was nodding his serious agreement. ‘Yeah. Looks more like a question of timing to me.’

The Adjunct was standing on his own now. He rolled one shoulder, wincing and hissing his pain. Suth offered him the sword. He took it and shook his head. ‘Fat lot of good it did me.’

‘You’re still alive, sir,’ Goss pointed out.

The Adjunct nodded thoughtfully, accepting the point. ‘True enough, Sergeant.’

Goss straightened, offering an abbreviated battlefield salute, and Suth turned to see Fist Rillish approaching. ‘Just in time,’ the Adjunct called.

Fist Rillish bowed. ‘Let’s hope Greymane is as prompt.’

The Adjunct was massaging his shoulder. ‘When do you expect him?’

‘Tonight – Burn speed him.’

The Adjunct grunted his acknowledgement. ‘We should be able to hold till then. I leave you to it.’

Fist Rillish bowed again, turned to Sergeant Goss; he pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he studied the man. ‘Your captain is on the east shore, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Goss took Suth’s arm. ‘On our way.’

*

Within the pressing mass of Roolian soldiers Ussü tapped the shoulder of his Moranth escort. He had seen enough. It was now plain to him that this second wave of invasion brought more than mere soldiers. Other powers, it seemed, deemed the timing right to challenge the Lady’s long dominance. Head down, he walked back up the slope, hands clasped behind his back. If it was equally evident to
her
by now … then he may be able to strike a bargain, of a kind.

Head down, lost in thought, he failed to note the row raging around Borun’s command position. If he had seen it he would have turned right round; as it was, he walked right into it. ‘You! Mage,’ someone demanded. ‘Talk some sense into your companion.’ Ussü looked up, blinking: a crowd of the Envoy’s officer and aristocratic entourage surrounded Borun. The Duke had spoken.
Kherran, that was his name
.

‘Yes, my Duke?’ Ussü asked mildly.

‘Remind him of his duty!’

Ussü turned to Borun. ‘Well, Commander? Whatever is the matter?’

‘It is now Envoy Enesh’s wish that the bridge be blown.’

Ussü raised an eyebrow.
Rather late for that
. ‘I see. And?’

A shrug. ‘We do not possess sufficient munitions for the task.’

‘I see.’ Ussü turned to Duke Kherran. ‘You heard the man. You had your chance. Now it can’t be done.’

The Duke advanced upon him, his round face darkening with rage. For a moment Ussü thought he would strike. Through clenched teeth he snarled, ‘We note you had sufficient munitions to mine the bridge earlier!’

‘That was earlier,’ Borun said, his voice flat. ‘Now, more importantly, what we do not possess is the bridge itself.’

The Duke was almost beyond words in his frustration. He pointed to the structure. ‘Well … do it here! This end!’

Borun waved the suggestion aside. ‘Inconsequential. The damage would be no more than that incurred on the far side. It could be repaired in a day. No, our only hope would be to seize the nearest shoreward pier and demolish it.’

‘Well? Do it!’

‘We do not possess sufficient munitions for the task.’

The man went for his weapon. He froze in the act, his chest heaving, gulping down air. ‘You two … You are deliberately frustrating our efforts! You wish us to fail! Overlord Yeull will deal with you!’ He gestured to the entourage. ‘Come!’

‘I strongly urge that all boats be pressed into a general withdrawal from the east shore,’ Borun called after the Duke.

‘Let it be on your head!’

The Moranth commander watched them march off. ‘We will be blamed no matter what,’ he mused aloud.

‘Yes. But not to worry.’

The matt-dark helm turned to him. Ussü could almost imagine the arched brow. ‘No?’

‘No. I have a feeling that we may count on the intervention of a higher authority.’

The helm cocked sideways in thought. ‘Indeed.’

Ussü entered the opened front of his tent. He searched among his herbs, touched a hand to his teapot: cold. ‘Hot water!’ he shouted. At the fire a servant youth leapt up to do his bidding. ‘So much for the imponderables, Borun. What of the practicalities? Do we withdraw?’
And Ussü glanced out of the tent. The Moranth commander was facing the river, armoured hands brushing his belt at his hips.

‘No.’

Ussü was quite surprised. ‘Really? We relinquish one bank just to keep the other?’

The commander entered the tent. He picked up a twist of dried leaves and brought them to his visor, took an experimental sniff. ‘Haste, High Mage. Speed. This quick dash to take the bridge. The forced march across Skolati. All these speak of a strategy for a swift victory. Yes?’

From a meal set out for him Ussü tore a pinch of cold smoked meat. ‘Granted.’ The dirt, he noted, had been raked clean. Poor Yurgen, Temeth and Seel. Able apprentices, but all without even the slightest
talent
. What would he do for assistants now? He sighed. Ham-handed soldiers no doubt.

Borun crossed his arms, leaned against the central table. ‘Then it is my duty to frustrate this strategy, no? I must impede, slow, delay. Disputing the crossing will effect that.’ He began pacing. ‘Oh, he may cross downstream, or upstream, but that would add weeks to his march. Not to his liking, I think.’

‘Very well. So we remain.’

‘Yes. And thus the question, High Mage … What can you contribute?’

Ussü popped the meat into his mouth, both brows rising.
Ah. Good question
. He cleared his throat. ‘I will need new assistants.’

*    *    *

Bakune sat hunched forward on his elbows over his small table next to the kitchen entrance at the back of a crowded tavern. He was dressed in old tattered clothes, his dirty hair hung forward over his face and he kept one hand tight round the shot glass of clear Styggian grain alcohol. He studied that hand, the blackened broken nails. When was the last time he had been so dirty? If ever at all? Perhaps once, as a child, running pell-mell through these very waterfront streets.

That night of the escape the Theftian priest might have had a boat waiting but neither he nor Bakune had anticipated the harbour’s being closed. No vessels allowed in or out. The gates of the city had been sealed as well. They might have escaped their cells, but they effectively remained imprisoned within Banith. Bakune was under
no illusions; he was certainly not important enough to warrant these precautions, nor did he think the priest so. No, the posted notices revealed that these prohibitions against travel had been levelled more than ten days ago.