Stonewielder (63 page)

Puller was yanking on his lower lip; Hyuke’s doubtful gaze slid to Bakune. The Assessor nodded. They shrugged. Puller leaned against one door. The priest headed in, Bakune following. ‘And Manask?’ he whispered.

The priest took hold of Bakune’s sleeve and the Assessor was astonished by the man’s strength as he easily yanked him back. ‘Never mind him. You shouldn’t come.’

‘I have to. The answer to a mystery is here. I must have it.’

‘It’s no mystery,’ the priest growled. ‘You already know the answer. You just refuse to see it.’

A great acid bite was taken from his stomach then and Bakune grimaced, clenching his jaws against it. The priest steadied him. ‘You look pale, Assessor. Are you well?’

Bakune nodded, curtly, gestured the priest on. ‘I have to know,’ he gasped through his teeth. ‘Please.’

Obviously against his better judgement the priest relented. He released Bakune. ‘If you must. Stay behind me.’

Together they walked the halls and rooms of the Cloister. The priest’s path seemed to be taking him unerringly towards the inner chapel of Our Blessed Lady. Early on they came to more bodies. ‘These are all priests and acolytes of the Lady!’ Bakune exclaimed, shocked.

The corpses lay like twisted dolls amid dropped boxes and chests, bundled clothes and even silver icons all tumbled together. ‘Looks like they were packing,’ the priest observed drily. Bakune winced, seeing blood pooled and caked around mouths, nostrils, glazed eyes, and even ears. He swallowed, tasting iron in his own throat.

As they neared the inner chapel, the corpses lay even more thickly. Heaped, even. Picking his way between them Bakune imagined he was seeing most of the hierarchy of the entire abbey. ‘Who could have done this?’ he whispered, awed. Again the priest did not answer.

They came to the chapel doors, which stood slightly open. The priest pulled one leaf aside, revealing a scene of devastation. Heavy stone pews lay scattered like toys. Dark stains marked swaths across the gleaming polished granite floor. Mangled bodies lay pushed up against walls as if flattened by the blows of a giant. The stink of blood and voided body fluids drove Bakune to cover his nose and mouth with a sleeve. After a few moments, the priest entered. His sandals slapped noisily on the tacky smeared stone floor. Bakune followed even though he did not wish to – he feared being separated from the priest even more.

Ahead, sitting on the white marble altar stone beneath a broad shimmering starburst tapestry of gold and silver thread, waited a tiny figure. A child. A young girl with long black hair wearing a plain orphan’s smock.

She smiled, brightening, and slid off the altar. ‘Ipshank!’ she piped, delighted. ‘You’ve come!’

The priest gave a slight bow. ‘M’lady.’

Bakune stared at the man.
Ipshank? Where had he heard that name before? Of course! Renegade! One of the highest of the Lady’s hierarchy to throw off her worship. That was during the first invasion. The animal tattooing … turned to one of the foreign gods then. Now I begin to understand
.

Ipshank inclined his head to indicate the tossed bodies crumpled amid the broken stonework. ‘Still as impatient as ever, I see.’

The child stamped her foot and the entire edifice shuddered around them. Dust came sifting from the hidden ceiling and enormous blocks of stone grated and shifted. Candelabra hung on long chains from the darkness above swung overhead, moaning. ‘
They would flee! Flee!
’ Bakune clamped his hands to his ears in agony. He fell to his knees. Warmth made him pull his hands away – blood smeared his palms. A pink mist swam before his vision.

‘And this one?’ the child’s voice asked.

‘He had to see with his own eyes what no one could convince him of.’

‘Well, he has seen enough.’ A blow like the slap of a battering ram batted Bakune aside. He struck a fallen stone pew, heard bones crack. The agony blackened his vision for a time. But he fought to retain his consciousness: he
had
to see! Had to witness!

‘You have reconsidered my offer?’ the child was saying.

‘You know the answer to that,’ came the man’s coarse gravelly voice.

‘A pity. Now you are bereft. You betray me, and then that god you clove to … the one your grunting ancestors squirmed before … the beast … you rejected him as well! Such an honour he offered you! Destriant! Arch-priest! And now he is cast down. Who could possibly be next for you? Truly, I am curious. Who will you run to next?’

‘None. I’ve made up my own.’

A very un-girlish laugh echoed through the chapel. ‘Your
own?
You cannot do that!’

‘I have done so. And I have sent it out into the world to make its own way.’

‘Enough foolishness, Ipshank. I renew my offer. Be my Destriant. The power you will wield will be unlimited. Join me! I have found my High Mage. And my Mortal Sword – or should I say Spear? He awaits my enemies on the Stormwall. Together we will sweep these invaders from our shores.’

‘I am sorry, m’lady, but it is too late for that. They are here now. Banith is defenceless. You must withdraw.’

‘
Withdraw?
Leave? This is
mine!
’

The building shook beneath another blow. The floor bounced, shifting the strewn wreckage, and glass shattered all along the walls. A candelabrum fell to explode in shards. Something wet struck Bakune and he turned his head, blinking and squinting. It was an arm. The arm led to the robed body of the Abbot Starvann Arl. The priest had been right: he would not see Bakune. For no legs emerged
from beneath those wet stained robes, and upon his bearded face, frozen surprise. Stunned astonishment.
You thought you could control her, didn’t you? And perhaps, over time, you came to think you
were
in charge. You came to think that she truly
was
just a child. You poor deluded fool
.

‘No? You will not go? Very well.’ Sandals slapped the wet sticky floor. Gentle arms lifted Bakune. ‘Stay then, if you must. Those inhuman Moranth are coming. I leave you to them. Best of luck … I hear they have no blood within their armour.’

‘No! How
dare
you! I order you to stop!’

Bakune watched the chapel swing around him as he was carried to the doors. ‘Goodbye. I can’t imagine what they’ll do to you.’

‘Come back!’ the child shrieked. ‘I
demand
that you return! Do not leave me!’

Past the doors, they were halfway down the hall when a great scream tore the air around them. The almost inhuman noise was like a spike penetrating Bakune’s skull and he yelled his agony, bashing the heels of his hands to his forehead as if he could force the needle points from behind his eyes. The priest, Ipshank, paused, shaking his head to clear it, then set Bakune down. ‘Wait here.’

Bakune could not even speak to answer. He lay propped up against the wall, panting in agony.

Shortly, Ipshank returned; he carried the young girl slack in his arms.

‘Is she … dead?’ Bakune mumbled, and he spat out a mouthful of blood.

Ipshank shook a negative. ‘No. Unconscious. She will awaken remembering nothing.’ He extended an arm and pulled Bakune upright. The Assessor clutched hold of the man’s shoulder to take one limping step. ‘So … who is she?’

‘Just a vessel. A body used and cast aside. An avatar, some might say.’

‘Then … what of the Lady?’

They were approaching the entrance hall and the priest was peering ahead, frowning in puzzlement. ‘She is elsewhere, as I said.’

Bakune squinted as well: the outer doors were closed and barred. With Hyuke and Puller was Manask. But Bakune frowned, for it looked as if both ex-Watchmen were struggling to stab the giant with a spear. Then the scene reversed itself in Bakune’s rattled mind and it became clear that both men were struggling to yank out a spear stuck in the huge man’s chest. Hyuke had one foot up against
Manask’s stomach and was heaving while Puller was jerking the haft up and down. Manask himself had his back to a wall, both fists on the haft, his face crimson with effort.

‘Ah ha!’ he called, noticing them. ‘The holy man comes descending from the mount! What wisdom for us mere mortals?’

‘Find anything, Manask?’

The giant’s eyes flicked left and right. ‘Why … no. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a thing. No sacks of pretty gems set aside in secret hordes. No jewel-encrusted gold icons. Odd that, a cloister without icons! No stone chest of gold coins so large I could not move it hidden in the foundations. A shame that. In short, I come away empty-handed.’ And he let go the spear.

‘And this?’ Ipshank flicked the end of the spear haft.

‘A mere token of affection from the thousands of devout surrounding us.’

Ipshank’s brows rose. ‘Ah. I see.’

Hyuke peered at the girl. ‘Who’s this?’

‘A survivor,’ Bakune quickly said. ‘Everyone else is dead.’

Ipshank eyed him for a moment, saying nothing. He looked to Hyuke. ‘Find me somewhere she can sleep.’

‘Sure. There’s lots of rooms.’

Bakune eased himself down one wall. His left arm ached ferociously and he couldn’t move it. He suspected it was broken. At last Manask managed to pull the spear from his thick armour; he eyed its bright razor tip, impressed. ‘This one almost tickled me.’

Bakune had been studying the man’s face – one quite thin and long for someone supposedly fat. ‘You’re Boneyman, aren’t you?’

The man grabbed at his great mane of bushy hair, patting it. ‘What’s that? Boneyman? Ridiculous!’ He cleared his throat and peered around. Lowering his voice, he asked, ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a hammer and chisel, would you?’

‘No. Why?’

‘No reason! None at all.’ He examined the long spear, its wide thick blade, and rubbed his chin. ‘Hmm. Well, while no one is looking, I shall sneak away unnoticed! Here I go, stealthily, like a very shadow.’ And the man clumped off down the hall.

Farewell, Manask. Best of luck with whatever mad plan it is you’ve concocted
.

Bakune gathered a handful of sleeve and wiped at the blood drying on his face. ‘What are they doing out there?’ he asked Puller.

The man frowned, thinking about that. ‘Sitting. Praying.’

Bakune slowly nodded at the news. ‘Right.’
No more challenging questions for that one …

Ipshank returned. Bakune raised a questioning brow.

‘She’s sleeping.’

‘What now?’

The priest looked off towards the front, his wide mouth turned down. ‘Wait till dawn then get you out of here.’

Bakune paused in wiping the flakes of blood from inside his ears. ‘I’m sorry? I can’t hear so well right now. Did you say … me?’

‘Yes. You.’

‘Whatever for?’

The priest found a carved stone fount in which he splashed his face. ‘What for? Hasn’t it occurred to you, Assessor, that you are now the senior authority here in Banith? Who else must negotiate with the Moranth?’

Bakune stared. ‘Me? Negotiate?’

‘Yes, and soon.’

‘Soon? … Why?’

Ipshank pressed his fingers to his brow, sighed. ‘Before someone else does.’

‘Someone else? But whoever would do that?’

The priest peered down at him as if to see whether he was serious. ‘Boneyman, for example. He just might decide to take himself down to the wharf.’

Bakune lurched to his feet. ‘No! All the gods – not
him!
We must go.’

Ipshank was nodding steadily.

From the doors Hyuke spoke up: ‘If you’re in charge now can I be captain? I mean … you have to have more’n a
sergeant
guarding you. Gotta impress these backwoods Moranth, an’ all.’

Smiling evilly at Bakune’s discomfort, the priest gestured up the hall.

The Holies of the Lady’s worship are a triumvirate: the Three Gems. The first is the Lady Herself, She Who Protects. The second is the Chest, That Which Abides Within. The third is the Priesthood, Those Who Serve.

Thus are we protected, sustained, and guided. It is a perfect system and the envy of all.

School Primer
Damos, Jourilan

A
T FIRST USSÜ WAS MERELY IRRITATED BY THE LATE NIGHT
summons from the Envoy, Enesh-jer. Hands at his back, he tramped up the shallow hillside of the Ancy river valley. A servant preceded him, lantern raised, while two Moranth Black guards followed.

The bodyguard was a recent precaution Borun had forced upon him since the assassination attempt a week ago. Only his sudden recourse to the Warrens, a reflex action, had saved his life that night. The unleashing of power that came with that summons had surprised even him. The assassin had been pulverized instantly, organs burst, fluid gushing from all orifices. The man’s slim keen blade had only brushed the surface of his neck – no more than a shaving cut. Later, he and Borun kicked through the wreckage of his tent. Neither spoke; Ussü imagined both their thoughts ran to suspecting a Claw. How many, he wondered, had Greymane arrived with … the openly self-declared plus the covert, salted away to remain hidden, watchful.