Stonehand, p.2
Stonehand, page 2
“My Lord, do we need to listen to this drivel further? You asked us to accompany you to hear this scheme, and we have done so. I, for one, will not move one member of my House belowground. I doubt you will find a single Noble left in the City who will agree to such a ludicrous suggestion. And, what is more, I find myself unable to tolerate the presence of this . . . gentleman any further.”
Taelsin glared at Donal one final time and then sighed. “I agree, Lady Gerol. Once again, I am sorry for the words of my Secretary. He had suggested this would be a solution to our problems, but I now see it as yet another opportunity for him to show off. Please, would you excuse us, and I will join you aboveground shortly.”
“So, I take it we will not be moving the population belowground, then, Taelsin?” The speaker, a portly Minor Noble named Lord Olrun, barely kept the sneer out of his voice.
“No, my Lord. I am sorry to have wasted your time. Guards, close up the entrance. Nothing more needs to be done here. We shall entertain this folly no longer. Now, I must have a word with my staff. Can I please join you shortly?”
The Nobles graciously nodded their approval and withdrew to more fragrant air, leaving just Taelsin and Donal behind.
The two glared at each other in silence for a few moments.
“My Lord, you are a truly lousy actor for an outstanding politician.”
Taelsin rolled his eyes. “Me? You appear to have transformed into some sort of second-rate villain from one of the more fantastical scrolls. I kept half expecting you to twirl your moustache and cackle.”
“To speak plain, my Lord, I worried that should we be too subtle, the trap would not be sufficiently bated. We are not dealing with the premier intellects of the age here.”
“What trap?” Both men jumped at her voice as Daine approached from the shadows. “I must say, I have just passed the smuggest group of Nobles I have seen in a long time. They are all, loudly, of the opinion Donal’s days are numbered.”
“My Lady Darkhelm, I trust you are well?” Taelsin dipped his head in a bow.
“You find me as well as I find you, I imagine.”
Each took in the exhaustion of the other and smiled in recognition.
“I, on the other hand, am positively brimming with vim, vigour, piss and vinegar. If I may continue outlining my scheme, my Lord? My Lady? I do so love the scheming.”
Taelsin sighed and nodded for Donal to proceed.
“Thank you. As you are aware, we have known for some time that the King has been far too well-appraised of our preparations for the coming siege. We had, of course, made efforts to stem the usual communication methods, but some reasonably sensitive information continued to flow outwards.”
Daine rubbed her hand down her face. “You speak, Master Secretary, as if most of those ‘efforts’ did not involve me throwing people out of windows.”
“Well, quite. A startlingly efficient method of interrogation I wished I had stumbled upon centuries earlier. Think of the wear and tear I would have saved on knives. Well, never mind. Moving right along. Through several well-placed rumours, we have identified that the leaks must come from within the ranks of the few Nobles who have remained within the City.”
“The majority of my fellow Nobles, of course, having fled at the first sign of trouble, taking with them all the food, water, and manpower they could sneak out of the City.” Taelsin’s voice was bitter.
“Indeed. The rats have abandoned this entirely seaworthy vessel — see, I can be good for morale — and we must assume that those chosen to remain are either your staunchest allies or your most vicious opponents. Hence today’s little game.”
“And what was the outcome?”
“Well, that will rather depend, my Lady, on which of those present decides to leak news of the break in relationship between Taelsin and myself. Oh, and which of them gives the heads-up to the small attack squad we have identified hiding on the outskirts of the City? It is now apparent it will be safe to make ingress through the sewers.”
“I assume I am here because further defenestrations await me?”
Taelsin and Donal exchanged a look. “Not quite, Lady Darkhelm,” Mayor Elm began, “we would like you to . . .” and then he stopped.
Donal rolled his eyes. “My Master feels he is overstepping in this request. I’ve explained Knights of the Road like nothing more than the opportunity to bloody some noses. He’s doing you a favour, truth be told.”
Daine looked at the two of them and could not help but smile. There were few people in this world — or, to be fair, the next — whom she would call friends. But she felt very close to the Mayor and his Secretary.
During their journey back from the Village, she had greatly enjoyed their company. As a Knight of the Road, she had made a virtue of her isolation, enjoying relying on no one but herself. However, in the last month, her eyes had been opened to a world of friendship she would be loath to leave behind. These two, Kirstin, Eliud and, of course, Genoes. They were the new family she had forged for herself, and there was very little she would not do in order to keep them all safe.
“Taelsin, what would you have me do? I promised Eliud that Swinford will still be standing when he returns with Genoes, and I mean to keep that vow.”
At the mention of the Duskstrider, a touch more vibrancy entered Mayor Elm’s eyes. “Have you heard anything from him? We know he entered the Capital, but our spies have very little else to share.”
“I am afraid not, my Lord.”
“The Goddess . . . ?” Donal asked delicately.
“Is being Her usual ineffable self. The best I can say is that She does not seem overly alarmed by the current situation. If anything untoward has happened to Eliud, Kirstin or Genoes, then She is not worried about it.”
“That is not really as comforting as could be hoped.”
“Welcome to my existence.”
Donal shrugged. “Well, worrying about it won’t make much difference. We’re waiting for the Pendragon to appear and pull our feet from the fire. Any situation he has encountered with which he cannot cope is going to be beyond our ability to help. We’d be wiser to focus on our own problems and hope he gets here in time.”
Daine nodded. “I told him to meet us here. I am at your disposal.”
Donal clapped and put a hand on Daine’s shoulder, leading her towards one particularly aromatic grate. “Excellent. Well, if our little charade with the Nobles has worked as we hope, we are probably going to need someone of your Skills in the very near future. The big question is, I guess, whether we can find any watertight clothing in your size.”
Chapter Three
The Broken Tankard
Droughton-on-the-Water — thirty years ago.
Daine had noticed the increasing sparseness of houses and stalls the further they walked. She sensed they were approaching a less reputable part of Town.
Her understanding had been that Droughton-on-the-Water was one of the more prosperous places in this part of the world. However, she was learning it was not uncommon for the most beautiful lights to cast the darkest shadows.
As Daine and Bayran walked, the dilapidated houses appeared to swallow them in a hungry embrace.
Humble dwellings, their wooden frames groaning under the weight of years, huddled together in desperate solidarity. Once proudly whitewashed walls were now adorned with layers of grime, the graffiti of destitution etched in their decaying facades.
“It would seem that your Order should be more present in this part of Town, Priestess. Do not the followers of the Lords preach that everyone should have the chance to improve their lot? Where are your Hostels? Your Lower Priests ministering on these streets?”
“There is more than enough to occupy us in Droughton, my Lady. We do what we can to alleviate suffering. Some people . . .” Bayran indicated shadows peering at them from windows. “Well, there are those you can save from everything but themselves.”
They had been walking for several bells before they reached a solitary inn, its sign weathered and faded, standing at the heart of the desolate district.
Bayran, with a rolling of the eyes that amused Daine, accepted a pause in their journey. The inn was called “The Broken Tankard,” a fitting name for an establishment that had seen better days. Its windows had been colourful stained glass, once upon a time, but were now shattered and patched with ragged boards.
The door, once sturdy and welcoming, creaked on its hinges as it swung open, a haunting dirge that greeted those brave enough to enter. The air within was thick with the mingling scents of stale ale and despair, the sounds of muted conversations buzzing against the peeling wallpaper.
“Two ales, Barkeep.” Daine’s voice boomed out in the dark room.
“One ale and one water,” Bayran corrected. “One of us should keep a clear head.”
“Priestess, the ale will be cleaner than the water in such a place. No one needs a sharp mind whilst experiencing dysentery.”
When the drinks came, Bayran dipped a finger in her mug and muttered a few words, then grimaced at whatever was the outcome of the spell. She pushed it away from her. “My gods may approve of gambling — I will bank my Luck for now.”
Daine guffawed and looked around her. The other occupants of the inn were a motley crew of lost souls slumped over their drinks, eyes haunted by the trials of existence. Men, their faces rough and lined with worry, nursed mugs of watered-down ale, seeking solace in the fleeting embrace of forgetfulness. Women wearing gowns tattered and threadbare whispered secrets to one another, their laughter laced with bitterness and longing. Their faces told tales of shattered dreams and broken promises, etched with the lines of disappointment and defeat.
“Cheerful place.”
Bayran laid her hands on the counter and stared ahead. “My Lady. Life has been hard for many years for the poor in Droughton. And that was before the coming of the mirror and all it has wrought. These people do not deserve your scorn.”
She gasped as Daine took hold of her arm and pulled her roughly to face her. “It is not these people I scorn, Priestess. You sit in your perfumed, beautiful robes, with slippers that cost more than the building, and make pronouncements on a ‘hard life for the poor.’ I say again, I am shocked at the indifference of your Order to the suffering I see here. I well know where my scorn is directed.”
They sat in silence as Daine finished her drink. Each fostering growing resentment for the other.
*
Towards the back of the inn, unseen by either Knight or Priestess, engaged as they were in their own private bickering, a solitary figure slipped outside and began moving with purpose. Clad in rags, his weathered face hidden beneath a tattered hood, he moved through the streets with determination.
He knew every nook and cranny of this forsaken place, every hidden crevice that held the whispered secrets of a bygone era.
In the fading light of dusk, as the last vestiges of daylight cast long shadows upon the crumbling walls, the figure came to a halt before an ancient, vine-covered structure. The remnants of a grand cathedral stood before him, its once-towering spires reduced to crumbling stone. He stepped through the shattered doorway, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The air was heavy with the weight of the past, and he could almost hear the ghostly chants of forgotten prayers.
Here, in the heart of the derelict Town, he sought solace and purpose amidst the ruins.
He brought his master great news.
*
They had left the tavern shortly after Daine’s third drink. She did not especially like the ale — her Class ensured alcohol had no impact on her — but she enjoyed annoying the Priestess.
Daine recognised there was something she was missing about Bayran’s attitude towards the mirror. The Priestess acted as if their mission were exceptionally time-critical, but the mirror had been active for several months, if she believed the woman. There seemed little need for such urgency in their pursuit of it.
“Remember, boys and girls, only stupid people set traps. So stands to reason only stupider people get caught in them,” was one of Old Gant’s favoured maxims. She was all but certain the Priestess was leading her into some sort of deception. She just did not understand why — tangling with a Knight of the Road was a shortcut to a beheading.
And then she sensed a group of people loitering up ahead.
“Can you fight?”
Bayran stopped in her tracks and wrinkled her nose at the Knight’s terse tone. “Can I what?”
“Fight. You know” — she drew her longsword from its sheath on her back — “with a sword.”
“Why on earth would I . . .” Bayran frowned up at her companion. “Are you challenging me to a duel, my Lady?”
Not for the first time, Daine was reminded that not everyone was blessed with her enhanced senses. “There’s a group of six or seven people waiting for us around the next bend in the road. It might be more. It’s hard to tell. There’s something strange about the way they smell. I’m asking because I need to know if you can hold your own or if I need to protect you whilst fighting them.”
It had been a long and frustrating evening for Bayran. She knew her gambit with the curtsey had been childish, but she had not expected that the Knight was equally capable of such juvenile behaviour. Daine had, somewhat vindictively to the Priestess’s mind, continued to answer any and all petitions that came her way for three hours afterward. She was surprised she could still walk.
And now, far later than she had planned, they were making their way through the dark streets of Droughton.
She was disappointed in how she had handled the awkwardness in the tavern. Bayran felt she had, in some way, failed a test with the Knight. And now this insane child-barbarian was talking about engaging in some light swordplay.
“My Lady, I don’t know how they do things where you are from, but here in the Town, we do not assume every group approaching us has nefarious intent. In the civilised world, we try discourse before swinging the sword.” To underscore her words, Bayran swept past the Knight, calves screaming at the extra speed demanded of them, and turned the corner.
This would have made for quite the exit had she not instantly reappeared, running as fast as her sore legs could carry her. Daine stepped forward into the middle of the street to cover the Priestess’s retreat as several figures lumbered round the corner after her. The Knight’s eyes flickered in excitement as a horde of undead shuffled forward, their decaying limbs creaking like rusted iron.
“That’s more like it,” Daine grinned, taking up a classic guard position.
Catching her breath a short distance beyond Daine and drawing two wickedly sharp daggers, Bayran muttered vicious curses. “Yes. I can fight, my Lady. Just give me room to work when you are floundering around with that great heap of metal.”
“Any idea what they are?” Daine used the length of her longsword to mark a semicircle in the air through which she intended nothing to pass.
“Soulless. Mirror-taken. You remember the mirror, right? Or did that slip your mind with all that serious business of corn boundaries and fence heights?”
As a putrid stench of death wafted through the air, Daine twirled her blade, catching the dim light of flickering torches. It gleamed with a polished sheen, starkly contrasting with the murky darkness surrounding them. “You spoke of a mirror that ate people. I mayhap would have led with the existence in the Town of groups of Soulless waylaying people on the street. I would have stopped at two drinks if you’d been clearer as to the danger.”
Bayran shot her a withering glance. “My Lady, if you had taken your duty seriously at the time and followed my suggestion, we wouldn’t be here in the darkness, knee-deep in undead.”
Daine lunged forward, her sword slashing through the air with little precision. There was no need against a foe that took no evasive action. The movements of Soulless were clumsy, but their numbers could be overwhelming if the Knight let them bunch up. As she had suspected, there were far more than the seven or eight Daine had initially expected. Was there something about the undead that made them more difficult for her to sense? That could be troubling.
As she thought through the implications, Daine dodged and hacked at hands and arms seeking to entrap her, her large form moving with surprising, agile grace. “Do not fret, Priestess. Nothing I cannot handle. No need to risk ruffling your dress with such things.”
Bayran’s lips tightened into a thin line as she watched the Knight hold the centre of the street against such high odds. No matter how many times you heard about the efficacy of these warriors, seeing them in action was, annoyingly, impressive.
Mindful of the criticisms back in the tavern about the inaction of her Order, she was not content to hide behind the Knight’s sword. She channelled divine energy through her daggers and started casting spells to protect her erstwhile companion. Her voice was heavy with scorn as she muttered incantations, the holy symbols around her neck glowing with a gentle radiance. “You can jest all you want, my Lady, but remember, my prayers are the only reason you’re still standing!”
Daine chuckled, her laughter mingling with the cacophony of groans and hisses from the Soulless. “Sad as I am to deprive you of the chance to show off your miraculous powers, Priestess, you will find your charms don’t work on me. If you wish to be helpful, you will need to get your hands dirty. Or, which would be my preference, stay back and let me finish my work.”
As the battle raged on, Daine’s blade cleaved through rotten flesh, sending limbs flying and bodies crumpling to the ground. Anxious not to be left out, Bayran abandoned her spells — she had known the Knights were resistant to all forms of magic and was frustrated to have misstepped — throwing herself into the middle of the mindless assault. With each swing of their weapons, their bickering intensified.
