Stonewielder (90 page)

As they rattled through the streets he peered out at lit windows. The town appeared just as it had, if a touch quieter, if not anxious. The garrison, he noted, sat completely black without sentries or watchfires. ‘The garrison is dark,’ he said to a guard.

‘They moved out. They’re building a fort outside the town.’

‘Ah. And us? Where are we headed?’

‘To Paliss, m’lord.’

Paliss? The capital?
He sat back astounded. Karien’el controlled the capital? All the gods sustain him! He’d imagined a tent camp near some front, not the High Court itself! And without any interference from Karien’el, as well. Just as Karien’el said he knew him, so too did he know Karien’el. Just as he had
no interest in ruling, so did Karien’el have no interest in the law itself.

But he mustn’t get ahead of himself. He found a horse blanket under the seat and pulled it over his legs. He flexed his hand – still a touch numb. Karien’el would have to win out, after all. And if he did …
then
he would have his chance to put his stamp on the laws of the land.

And he most certainly intended to.

*    *    *

For some reason the city of Ring made Ivanr uneasy. He preferred to stay out in the field, occupying his tent in Martal’s fortress, with a view of the city walls. He and the wrapped bodies of Martal and the Priestess. Many flocked to him now, begging for his blessing, hounding him. Inside the city it would be ten times worse.

He was the inheritor of a polytheistic movement nurtured and prepared by Beneth, inflamed by the Priestess, directed by Martal, and now in control of over half of Jourilan – and it terrified him. He had no idea what to do, or how to proceed. What next? March on the capital, Jour? Already Orman was harassing him with intelligence from the Dourkan border: news of Imperial loyalists negotiating for an alliance against the Reformist movement. He was no politician! Orman could handle that; he seemed to relish it.

He rested a hand on the cloth-wrapped body of the Priestess, the head and body reverently brought together, packed in salt, and lovingly bound.
Such a small frame to have brought about such enormous change! Yet, as the churgeon said, nothing happened. Why did you allow it? Did you see, in the end, that nothing short of your complete sacrifice to the cause could assure their complete devotion as well?

‘Deliverer!’ a young girl’s voice called from without. Ivanr stirred from what was perhaps the closest he’d come to prayer in many years. Gods! Not another one!

He tossed aside the flap to see a young girl lying prone, hands out before her. ‘Stand up!’ he grated, much more ferociously than he meant. She stood, quivering her fear. ‘It’s all right. Don’t be afraid. Worship as you wish. There are no proscriptions now. The paths to the Divine are infinite.’

She nodded, gulping. ‘Yes, Deliverer. My father sent me. He is too old to come. He believes in your message of forgiveness.’ The girl
visibly gathered her nerve to plunge on: ‘My lord, with the death of the Black Queen there is such anger among the troops. They thirst for revenge … M’lord, in the city they are rounding people up. People accused of worshipping the Lady. They are killing them all.’

‘
What!
’

The girl flinched, falling prone once more. ‘No! Not you!’ He glanced about the tent, found his staff. ‘Show me.’

The streets were utterly deserted but for roving bands of Reformist troops, drunk, breaking into shops, looting. Along the narrow streets of two-storey shops and houses many gaped empty, ransacked from the rioting. Looted broken furniture and private belongings littered the street along with the burned remains of bonfires and street barricades.

After a few blocks, the girl leading, it became easy to find the source of the trouble as the echoing roar of shouting and cheering reached him. They came on to a market square. A great crowd of Reform troops mixed with Ring citizens, obvious victors in the bloody street-to-street civil clashes, choked the square. Some had even climbed broken statues and fountains for a better view, and everyone was peering across the way to where an informal archery range had been set up. Reform archers fired down the narrow cleared alleys between the crowds to targets of crossed lumber on which men and women hung limp, studded with arrows. A great cheer greeted every volley.

Enraged, Ivanr bulled his way forward. He slammed men and women aside and stepped out to where tables supported bows and quivers of arrows. Archers gaped at him, astonished, and most lowered their bows. All save one, a youth who deliberately ignored him to take his time firing one last shot into a woman hanging by her arms. The shot went true, though the woman’s body didn’t flinch, supporting as it did an entire forest of arrows.

Two quick strides brought Ivanr to the fellow and he slapped the bow from his hands. ‘How dare you, you evil bastard!’ he raged. The archer whipped round and he found himself staring straight into the scarred young face of the boy he’d rescued.

For Ivanr everything stopped.

The noise from the crowd faded to nothing. Even his vision darkened at its edges. He staggered backwards, his heart lurching as if impaled.
Gods forgive me! No!
The boy’s face was different now – a kind of habitual cruelty twisted it. The youth snatched up his bow and defiantly nocked another arrow.
No! Please
… Ivanr started
forward, reaching out for him.
Please don’t do this – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …

The youth spun about and fired point-blank into Ivanr’s chest.

The answering roar of the crowd dazzled him. He stood confused. Hordes crowded in upon him. Hundreds of hands snatched the youth, tearing his clothes, his hair. The boy seemed to disintegrate before his eyes. All he could think of was that there was something he meant to do; he just couldn’t quite remember what it was. Someone was talking to him – the man’s mouth was moving but Ivanr couldn’t make out his words among all the roaring noise. He peered down at the palm’s breadth of shaft and fletching protruding from his chest.
Something had to be done about this!

He asked the man if he could help him, or thought he did, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Hands guided him to a room, sat him on a straw pallet. Breathing was hard now – the arrow had taken a lung. But he was of Toblakai stock, and hardy. He stayed conscious, even when an army bonecutter leaned him forward to snip the shaft at his back, then, looking to him for permission, yanked the arrow out from his front. Ivanr convulsed in a great spewing mouthful of blood. The bonecutter bound his torso in muslin. Eventually Orman appeared, accompanied by Hegil.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Orman told him, actual tears in his eyes.

‘They’re saying it was an assassin sent by the Lady,’ Hegil said.

Ivanr shook his head. ‘Stop them,’ he said, his voice papery dry.

‘Stop?’ Hegil asked. ‘Stop what?’

‘The killing. No more.’

The two shared glances. ‘Yes,’ Orman told him. ‘Yes, Ivanr. Do not worry. Ease your mind.’

Bowing, they left. He heard speaking outside but couldn’t quite make out the words. He was alone, straining to draw breath. Orman may have given his word to stop the killing but outside, on the streets, if anything the noise was swelling. Ivanr feared the attack on him had shattered all restraint. He tried to stand, but tensing his chest stole his breath completely and he almost blacked out.

The door opened and a young woman crept in like a mouse. A mouse dragging a huge stick with it. She looked up to see him staring at her and choked off a yell. It was the girl who had summoned him into the city. ‘They are saying you are dead!’

Ivanr, who had been pressing a hand to his chest, let it fall. ‘Who is saying?’

‘Everyone! On the streets. They are emptying entire quarters.
Dragging families on to the streets. There is no sense to it. It’s just bloodletting, nothing more than bloodlust.’

He gestured for his staff. ‘Give me that!’

Together with the support of the staff and the girl, he managed to stand. ‘My shirt – there.’

She dressed him and, one hand on her shoulder, the staff in the other, he limped outside. Guards turned, amazed. Two were his sworn bodyguards. These two looked at him, stricken with remorse.

Ivanr surveyed the gathered soldiers. ‘Attend me,’ he commanded simply, and they fell to their knees.

As he limped along within his circle of guards, Ivanr clenched back his pain and asked, breathless, ‘Where should I go – the centre of things?’

‘The Cathedral of Our Lady. Loyalists are fleeing there. The garrison of Stormguard on the Ring have come ashore. None dare attack them.’

Stormguard? Yes, dragging old men and women into the street is one thing, taking on the most ferocious warriors of the region is quite another
.

A broad open plaza surrounded the cathedral. They found it a churning sea of citizenry and Reform soldiers. Ivanr’s guard cordon pushed its way towards the wide front stairs. Ivanr heard chants to burn the entire structure to the ground. The tall oaken doors gaped open, guarded by four Stormguard. Even as Ivanr approached, Ring citizens, including entire families, darted up the stairs under a hail of rocks and rotten food to run inside. Within, he glimpsed a solid mass of pale terrified faces staring out.

Silence spread like ripples through the crowd around his passage. People pointed, shouting their surprise, even reverence. Ivanr raised his arms, staff in one hand, even though the gesture sent slashes of agony through his chest. He motioned for his guards to part and he climbed the trash-littered stairs alone.

‘Citizens of Jourilan! Hear me! The time for killing has passed. There will be no more blood spilled!’

A momentary lull in the crowd’s noise followed that, only to be filled by fresh screams. Those nearby pointed behind him. Ivanr turned to see a Stormguard descending the wide stairs, his thick blue cloak wrapped around him, spear held up straight. Ivanr’s guard charged forward but he waved them back.

‘You lead this rabble?’ the Korelri called, his voice lazy with self-assurance.

‘They seem to think so,’ he answered, fighting down the pain, dizzy with it.

‘Well.’ The man stamped the butt of his spear down on a stair, regarded him through the vision slit of his rounded full helm. ‘We within remain true in our faith. We are not afraid to die.’

Ivanr was afraid that if he coughed he’d collapse, but he cradled his chest, said, ‘But you
are
afraid of something.’

The Korelri waved a hand. ‘We fear nothing.’

‘You are terrified of change. So scared you’d rather die than face it.’

The man took a step back. His eyes widened within the helm, then he waved again. ‘Faugh! Play your games of rhetoric and argument elsewhere, apostate. We here are pledged to the Lady – flesh and blood – we merely wait for her to collect us.’

Flesh and blood
. Ivanr stared.
Gods! Could this be … deliberate? How many crowded within? Perhaps a thousand souls? Such an enormous blood sacrifice! All in the name of the Lady! No! I mustn’t allow this
.

The Korelri had turned his back on the crowds, deliberately and mockingly, and stalked back to the doors. Ivanr scanned the mass where brands now flamed as bonfires burned in the square. Wood and trash arced through air to strike the cathedral walls.

‘Come and die!’ the Stormguard bellowed from the doors.

Ivanr raised his arms wide, staff in hand. ‘No! I forbid it! The way of the Lady is to worship death. I ask you to worship life!’

Many heeded his call, but too many out of reach of his voice continued throwing tinder and shattered furniture.
It would only take one spark to light a conflagration!
Ivanr’s heart spasmed. He could not breathe; his vision darkened.

He gathered all his remaining strength and clasped the staff in both hands before him, bellowing, ‘
No! The time for vengeance and vendetta has passed! No more retribution! I forbid it!
’ And he slammed the staff down on the stone stairway.

The crowd hushed at the echo of that great crack of wood against stone. All was quiet for one brief instant. Then Ivanr collapsed.

It may have been his delirious dimming consciousness, but as he lay sprawled it seemed that a roaring overbore all noise. The earth moved beneath him. It heaved, rocking, accompanied by a great landside rumbling. Shrill panicked shrieks penetrated even his fading hearing. Hands lifted him up. He blacked out, seeming to float in their tender grip.

*    *    *

It was an ants’ nest of tunnels and caves that seemed to go on for ever – always deeper into the bowels of the mountains that bordered the inland lake, Fist Sea. They went side by side, the Adjunct and Rillish leading. The local Drenn elder, Gheven, who had brought them through Warren, walked in the middle of the column. All they had met so far were emaciated ascetics who gaped at them, or priests of the Lady who, unarmed, launched themselves upon them, gibbering and clawing with their naked hands. All these Rillish ordered bound and left behind.

His arm aching, Suth slung his shield on his back. He couldn’t tell if they were making any headway at all. Every cave and length of low-ceilinged tunnel looked like every other. It was dim, dusty, and so confined that many of them couldn’t straighten. His leg was almost numb.
This was ridiculous; there was nothing here
. Pyke was grumbling that very thing to Lard. Yet ahead, the bullet head of the bald priest, Ipshank, ran with sweat and his brow was deeply furrowed. Maybe there was something … but where was it?