A Cast of Stones (22 page)

The sword strapped to her back proved to be as different as its owner. It curved where other steel ran straight, bore only one edge, and the hilt looked big enough for both hands. Her manner of speaking made Errol acutely uncomfortable. The closest she came to a smile was when Errol asked if she would be willing to spar with him using the staff.

The oddest member of the guard was Garret Conger, whose common name only accentuated his eccentricity. Short, even shorter than Errol, with a dark grizzled beard, he wore a tattered cassock and steadfastly maintained he used to be a priest, though he refused to answer any questions on how he came to change stations in life. A man more unlike Antil, or even Martin, would have been hard to imagine. Conger boasted a prodigious collection of swear words, many of which Errol didn't recognize, drank to excess, and demonstrated a broad variety of disgusting personal habits.

In time, Errol's turn at guard came, and he stood along the line of wagons loaded with animal hides, breathing through his mouth. Conger, the eighth, stood next to him reading out loud from a book on church doctrine and periodically scratching an armpit. Whenever he chanced across a section that he thought required comment, he latched onto Errol.

“That's it, boy! Look at this.” He shoved the book into Errol's face just long enough for him to read the first word before taking it back again. “What do you think of that?”

Errol shrugged. “I don't know. I can't really read.”

The scruff of Conger's beard quivered with his outrage. “That's ridiculous. How can you discern the majesty of the church's history if you can't read, boy? Humph. That must be corrected—I'll teach you.” His gaze fell back to the text. “I tell you, Deas will wipe us out if we don't repent of our evildoings.”

Errol gave him a sidelong glance. He tried to keep the smirk from his face, but couldn't quite. “You mean like swearing and drinking?”

It was the first time anyone had responded to Conger that morning, and his face lit with pleasure. “Yes!” He paused, nonplussed, and then went on in a softer tone. “I mean, yes, well, those are certainly habits to be avoided if possible, but there are much more important issues, like love for your fellow man, taking care of the unfortunate—that sort of thing.” He looked away, scratching his throat just above his cassock. “I don't think Deas would begrudge a man a drink every now and then, and as for language . . . well, we all say things in the flare of the moment that we shouldn't.”

Someone snorted a few feet away, and Errol spied a mop of curly brown hair that belonged to Onan. “Droppings, that's what it is. All the church's talk of Deas and lots and the barrier is just a ploy to keep people in line so those fat priests can line their pockets.”

“The barrier is weakening.” The words came out of Errol's mouth before he thought, as though Onan's rant had pulled the statement from him.

“Deas forbid,” Conger said, scratching with one hand even as he genuflected.

Onan curled his forefinger and thumb into a ball and extended the other three fingers in the ancient sign meant to ward off evil. He glared at Errol. “Do you want to bring trouble on us, Stone?”

Errol tilted his head and smiled. “I didn't think you believed, Onan.”

The guard hunched his shoulders as if trying to ward off an expected blow. “I . . . I don't, but there's no sense in taking chances. What would you know about it?”

Errol's smirk slid from his face. “I heard a couple of merchants talking a few months back. They said things were bad at the edge of the kingdom.” He shrugged. “I've heard people mention it, but truth be told, I'm not even sure what the barrier is.”

Onan swore, borrowing from Conger's extensive vocabulary. “Then you're a fool, boy, giving mention to things. Who knows what could be listening?”

Conger pulled at his jaw muscles as if coming out of a deep sleep. “The barrier?” He paused to interject a few swear words—Errol recognized most of them. “The first king bought the barrier by blood, boy, but that came later. Thousands of years ago, after Deas created the worlds and cast them among the stars, some of the malus, the ones who served him, rebelled out of jealousy. They took form and enslaved this world. Men and women were chattel, playthings. Then Deas's son, Eleison, came down. He took human form and fought, sacrificing himself to lock the malus away from his creation. But the memory of them remained, and through design and worship of the vile creatures, men opened a doorway for the malus to return, not in body, but in spirit. Eventually, war came that lasted for nearly a hundred years.”

That didn't make any sense to Errol. “How could a war last that long? Everybody would be dead.”

“The evil ones weren't trying to kill, boy. They wanted to corrupt. The corruption moved slowly. People didn't recognize it for what it was. Some said the weather was just changing. Others
claimed nothing was wrong at all. By the time the truth became too obvious to ignore, everything in the steppes to the east and Merakh to the south had been lost.”

A shadow passed in front of the sun, and chills like the skittering of rodents ran across his skin. “But there are men there,” he said, trying not to believe. “I've heard the merchants talk about them.”

Conger nodded. “Oh, there are men there. There are even merchants and caravans fool enough to trade into those lands for spices or stones, but the memory of demon worship lingers in those lands, and the taint lingers. Men and women willingly become conduits for the malus, the fallen.”

“How did the first king create the barrier?” Errol asked.

“Don't talk nonsense, boy,” Onan answered. “No man could do such a thing.”

Errol looked at him in surprise at his sudden reversal. Onan blushed and waved for Conger to continue. “Go ahead, Garret. Tell the boy.”

Conger smiled, pulled his shoulders back. “A hundred years after it started, the corruption spilled across the Sprata Mountains from the steppes and flooded up from the south. Men fought shapes and shadows that shunned daylight and came at them in the darkness. There was no kingdom of Illustra then, and no king, just a collection of provinces, each with their own ruler. They met at Erinon, the place farthest from the corruption, to choose a leader. The histories say they didn't know the consequences of their choice.” Conger stopped to spit and swear.

Errol started at the interruption. The cadence of the man's words, rough though they were, had held him.

“What happened then?” Onan asked.

The would-be priest smiled. “They forced the kingship on Magis by lot. History says he fought from taking it, either through humility or premonition.”

The hair on Errol's arms lifted. “Premonition of what?”

Conger didn't answer right away. He smiled in obvious
enjoyment at the attention. “Magis finally accepted the crown and the fate they'd fashioned for him. He bade good-bye to his wife, Lora. Left his youngest son, Magnus, at Erinon, he did. Said a boy of fifteen had no place in a war, but he took the twins, who were barely a year older. Magis was said to be wise. Leaving Magnus may have been the wisest thing he ever did. Mayhap he just wanted one of his sons to survive him.

“They met the hordes close to the Forbidden Strait. People have wondered if the outcome would have been any different if he'd chosen to fight at the steppes.” Conger shrugged. “We'll never know. He split his army and took his half south toward the bigger threat, met the enemy just past the plains of stone. Then he did something no one expected.”

Onan, his eyes bright, pointed. “He went out alone.”

Conger grimaced at the interruption. “Don't be ridiculous. They weren't even sure what they were fighting.” He turned his gaze back to Errol. “They say he prayed all night before the battle.”

“Of course the churchmen would say that.” Onan's tone left little doubt about what he thought.

“Question some of it and question it all.” Conger spit, left off the curse, and made a point of turning his back on Onan, who edged around to listen to the rest of the story anyway.

Conger shrugged. “Just before dawn, Magis had a vision. Some say Aurae came to him, others say he saw Deas or Eleison. But the message was unmistakable. He was supposed to challenge the leader of the horde to single combat.”

Errol had heard enough tales to guess the ending. “And he vanquished the enemy and the rest of the horde fled.”

The look Conger gave him made him blush with embarrassment. “Don't be stupid, boy. Magis was brave and by all accounts skilled with a sword, but he and his army fought something less, and more, than human. The leader of the horde accepted his offer. The next morning Magis woke to find the horde gone. How was he supposed to fight an enemy that disappeared?

“They stayed there on the edge of the plain waiting for word
back from their scouts. But no word came. None of the scouts returned. When dusk fell, the horde returned. Magis and his army were surrounded. The enemy mowed them down until only Magis and his guard remained. Magis watched his sons die, hacked to pieces by men grown monstrous. Then the leader of the horde came forward and laughed at Magis's challenge and honor.

“But he called Magis from his guard to take revenge if he could.”

“And then Magis killed him,” Errol said. The hero always emerged victorious in these stories.

Conger shook his head. “This isn't a tale, boy. It's history. Magis was no match for the thing he faced, and he knew it. He drew his sword and advanced. The fight lasted less than a minute. The horde captain, the man-thing filled with the strength of a malus, toyed with Magis before it finished him, cutting him across the throat like a butcher. It held him upside down, shaking him and laughing as his blood sprayed the ground.

“And then Magis died.”

Errol shook his head in denial. That didn't make sense. “If Magis died, the horde would have overrun everything. The story's wrong. And if the horde killed everyone, who would have brought the tale of what happened?”

Conger smiled. “You didn't listen. His guard still lived. The horde captain thought it would be amusing to make them watch their new king slaughtered like a pig. He tossed Magis's still-bleeding body aside and started for the guard, but when the last of the king's blood left his body to soak the ground, the horde fell dead. Thousands upon thousands of the accursed ones dropped in their tracks on the plains of stone and near the steppes. The guard stayed, paralyzed, thinking it a trick of some kind to give the demons sport. They huddled there through the night. When dawn broke and the dead remained, they were convinced. They fashioned a litter and carried Magis over the piles of dead and back to Erinon. The journey back proved to be nearly as hazardous as the battle. Too few men remained in the kingdom to
uphold the law. But each night, shamed that their king died while they lived, the guard stood watch over his body, fighting any that came at them out of the darkness. Always they kept watch. When they reached Erinon, they refused the recognition of friends or kin. Forsaking their names, they called themselves the watch and traded in the marks and banners of their houses for mourning black. They swore an oath never to outlive their king in battle again.

“Magis purchased the barrier with his blood, boy. That was the deal he made. And as long as one of his descendants sits the throne, no one in the kingdom may call on the malus.”

A memory clicked into place. Errol's stomach turned, trying to flee through his legs. “Rodran doesn't have any children, and he's dying.”

Conger didn't speak as he nodded.

 16 
The Shaping of Wood

E
RROL SQUINTED
against the afternoon sun as he rode with his staff across his saddle and worked a piece of dried beef with his teeth. Grub made it on the salty side, but it gave his stomach enough to keep it from complaining. He ripped off a piece and stuck the rest in a pocket before turning his attention back to his staff. Splinters jutted from the formerly smooth ends, and small cracks fissured the end grain.

Soon or late he would have to make a new one, but he didn't know how. When Ru called a halt and directed the caravan to a clearing beside the road for the evening, Errol decided to seek out Rokha. The woman made him nervous. Her resemblance to Karma, the woman possessed by the malus in Windridge, still filled him with the desire to flee at times, but her storehouse of knowledge impressed him.

Jhade would have seemed a more logical choice for him to ask for help, but the strange woman didn't engage in extended conversation for any reason. She did, however, spar with an indefatigable enthusiasm that bordered on obsession. When she discovered Errol to be a willing staff partner, his every free
moment became spoken for. His first lesson had proven to be quite educational. He rubbed a shoulder at the recollection. From the outset it was obvious she'd learned an entirely different way of fighting with the staff than he had. While Errol concentrated on attacking and defending with the staff, Jhade had attacked with wood, hands, and feet. He wore numerous bruises from her heels and hands.

So he decided it would be best to ask Rokha for assistance. Whether the topic was weapons or weather, she either knew the answer or knew where to find it. As he approached her, he shifted, rolling his shoulders under his tunic. “Rokha.” He held his staff out for her inspection. “Do you know anything about making a staff ?”

She cocked her head and looked at him with her dark eyes that always held a hint of fire. Every now and then she would flash him a smile that pulled the breath from his lungs. Now she just shrugged.

“Shouldn't you ask Jhade? She's the one who fights with the staff.” Rokha patted the slim blade that never left her side. “I prefer steel myself.”

Errol shrugged. “Jhade is a great sparring partner, but she doesn't talk much, and I need someone to teach me how to use a knife.”

Her delicately curved eyebrows rose a fraction. “You don't know how to use a knife?”

He sighed in frustration. “Of course I know how to use a knife.” He moved his hand. “You thrust and twist to keep the wound from closing.” He let his hand fall to his side. “But I don't know how to carve.”

“Everyone knows how to carve. What did you do with yourself growing up?”

“I drank mostly.” The admission didn't bother him the way it once would have, and he thanked Rale in the vaults of his mind. “When I wasn't drinking, I was hunting plants for the herbwomen around my village. They paid me and I bought ale.”

To her credit, she nodded as she gave him a look of simple acknowledgment without a trace of pity. “I wondered why you were so careful to avoid Grub's ale barrel.”

He shrugged. “Can you teach me?”

Rokha nodded. “But I'm not going to teach you in ash or oak. It would take too long. Take an axe and find a piece of fir, or better yet, pine. I can teach you on that and then you can make a staff out of whatever you want.”

Errol's search took him farther into the wood than he expected, and before he realized it the clamor of Ru's caravan faded and disappeared. Cedars populated this part of the forest, with an oak or maple thrown in here and there, but he found no pine or fir. He turned from the path he'd chosen, climbing a hillock that might offer him a better vantage point.

When he crested the hill, a small stand of pines presented itself at the bottom of a nearby hollow. He crisscrossed his way down the slope, lugging Grub's hatchet with him. Minutes later, with the tang of pine heavy in the air, he held a straight length of wood about two spans long. Green, it would be far too heavy to wield as a staff, but he only intended to practice carving on it anyway.

A few well-placed chops pruned the branch. He sighted along its length and congratulated himself on his choice. Already, he could imagine the outcome, smooth and white, whirling in his hands as he moved. Practicing with the pine might not be such a bad idea after all. The greater weight of the unseasoned wood would help him build the strength he needed to wield an oak staff someday. Errol hummed a tune to himself as he started the trek back to Ru's caravan.

He tried to retrace his steps, but each stand of cedar trees looked much like the others. By the time he heard the distant sounds of Sven arguing with Grub, only a sliver of sun showed above the horizon. He approached the camp with his branch tucked under one arm.

And stopped.

Errol held his breath and slid behind the bole of a large maple. The raised bark scratched him through his tunic, but he ignored it, used a breathing technique Rale had taught him to quiet the pounding of his heart.

He listened, taking slow, shallow breaths, but only Sven's insistence came to him through the trees. Errol cursed himself for leaving the camp without his real staff. What kind of caravan guard walks through a strange forest without his weapon? The whole reason Ru had guards was because people tried to rob caravans. He looked at the pine branch with disgust. He might as well try swinging a bar of iron. The hatchet made a handier weapon if he could catch his enemy unaware, but one twig snap and he'd find himself facing the point of a sword. With a long, slow breath, he leaned his pruned branch against the tree and edged around the trunk to look again.

They were gone. The two men he'd seen crouched behind a thick growth of laurel were nowhere to be seen. Had he imagined them? Possibly, but he didn't believe it. He held his position as the forest darkened, but nothing moved. Errol left his hiding place, forced by the encroaching darkness to make his way back to camp in the last of the dusk's light.

He skirted the fire, ignored the food Grub had laid out, and made for Rokha, who stood at the edge talking to Skorik. The first didn't look pleased at the interruption.

“It's about time,” Rokha said. “I thought you'd decided to grow the tree first.” She looked at the branch he held. “That's not too bad. It looks—” She broke off at the look on his face. “What is it, boy?”

Errol stammered under the first's glare. Had he really seen them or just imagined it? What if he was wrong? The sunlight played tricks with the shadows. In the end he shook his head. “Nothing. I just got a little spooked in the woods.”

Rokha leaned forward, her eyes boring into his as if she meant to pry his concerns from him by strength of will, but at last she leaned back with a shrug. “You're one of the most nervous people
I've ever met. Whatever it is can't be as bad as you think. It's not like you've got the watch hunting you.”

Errol's laughter sounded shrill in his ears, and a couple of the guards seated by the fire looked up. He dug out a knife Grub had loaned him and offered it hilt first to Rokha. She took it, frowned, and handed it back. From within her cloak she proceeded to bring forth an astonishing assortment of knives. Seeing the look on his face, she gave him a smile that made it difficult to breathe.

“I like knives,” she said. Her husky tone brought heat to his ears. She selected the largest blade from the pile at her feet. “We'll start with this one. It's heavy enough to pull the bark and cut through the small knots.”

One of the knives on the ground caught his attention. It looked just like the one Luis used. The flat, triangular blade was no longer than his shortest finger. He pointed. “Shouldn't we use that one?”

Rokha shook her head. “That's a carving knife. It's for detail work. What we need here is something a little heavier.” Seating herself on the ground with one end of Errol's branch resting in her lap, she wrapped a cloth around the blade end and drew the knife toward her in a smooth motion. A long curl of bark slid off the blade showing the pale wood underneath. She repeated the motion a couple more times, then stood and gestured.

“Now you do it. Don't angle the knife too deeply or you'll splinter the wood.” She gathered her cutlery. It disappeared into the pockets lining her cloak and she left.

He sat and tried to imitate her, but despite her warning, he buried the blade into the wood half a dozen times before he schooled himself to patience. It took him the better part of an hour to reach the point where he could draw a curl of wood from the pine as she had. When he saw her next, a pile of shavings, some fine and curled, others embarrassingly thick, littered the ground.

Rokha knelt with a smile, fingering one of the jagged chunks
of pine. “It may take you a while to learn. Fortunately, there's a lot of pine between here and Erinon.” She took the heavy blade from his hands and stashed it into her cloak. “You have first watch tonight.”

An impulse bordering on need drove him. “Can I use your carving knife while I stand watch?” He tried but didn't quite succeed in keeping the pleading from his voice. Why was he acting this way?

Rokha considered the question before reaching into her cloak and pulling out the small-bladed knife. “Don't use it on that wet pine. Find something dry or you'll hurt the blade.”

He nodded, having no idea where he would find seasoned wood. After pestering Grub and half the guards in the camp, he finally found a source of dried blanks. Norad, the fourteenth guard, carved as a hobby. He surrendered two fist-sized cubes of wood to Errol with a wry look.

“You never challenged me for my spot, Errol.”

Not knowing what to say, he shrugged at Norad's observation.

“Someone must have told you that Eck was fifth. I think you could have challenged up to eighth without breaking a sweat. Most of us have never fought a staff bearer.” The fourteenth gestured toward the lead wagon, where Naaman Ru stood discussing the next day's route with Skorik. “You know Ru pays his guards according to their rank. You'd make a lot more money.”

Errol shrugged, hefting his staff. “I love working the staff.”

Norad nodded and smiled.

“But I haven't fought very much,” Errol went on. “I think there's more to fighting than just knowing the staff. Fights seem to be pretty unpredictable. I'd like to avoid them if I can. Grub gives me as much to eat as I want, so I don't really need a lot of money.”

The fourteenth added another block of wood to the two already in Errol's hand. “You're uncommonly wise for someone so young, Errol.” He chuckled. “I think you just made friends with at least seven of the guards.”

Errol retreated to his post at the back of the caravan and considered the cubes he'd received. He lifted the first one and took an exploratory whiff. Pine. No mistaking it. The second one also proved to be pine. The third block appeared altogether different. Dark and strongly scented, it weighed more while possessing a rougher texture. Hardwood. He'd save it for later, after he acquired some measure of skill.

He pulled Rokha's knife from his pocket to work on the first block. There had never been any question about what he would carve, not since he'd watched Luis that day next to the river. So he would try to craft a sphere, but how did a reader put the essence of his thoughts into the lot?

Errol didn't have the least glimmer of an idea. Luis had never told him.

He gripped the knife in his right hand and shaved a curlicue from one of the sharp edges of the cube. Maybe if he tried to envision a sphere hidden within it would go better. He turned the cube and stroked the knife against the blond grain again, repeated the process until he'd broken each of the twelve edges. The cube didn't look much different. It would be more difficult to get a splinter now, but it was still undeniably a cube, not a sphere. The urge to attack the block with quick, savage cuts nearly overpowered him. He had never done anything so mind-numbingly boring in his life. How did Luis stand it?