The Stone of Farewell (34 page)

“And Sisqi?” Simon asked, suddenly remembering the troll maiden. He scanned Binabik's face anxiously, but the troll showed only a distracted smile.

“She has survived, and with only small wounding.”

“Can we take Haestan down off the mountain? He wouldn't want to be left here.”

Binabik reluctantly shook his head. “We cannot carry his body, Simon. Not on our rams. He was a man of largeness, too much for our mounts. And we still have a dangerous way to go before we are on flat land. He must stay here, but his bones will lie in honor with the bones of my people. He will be with other good and brave warriors. That is, I think, as he would be wishing. Now, you should sleep again—but first there are two who would speak with you.”

Binabik stepped back, Sisqi and the herder Snenneq were there, waiting at the cave-mouth. They came forward to stand beside Simon. Binabik's intended spoke to Simon in troll speech. Her dark eyes were grave. Beside her, Snenneq seemed uncomfortable, shuffling from foot to foot.

“Sisqinanamook says she is sorrowful for you in the losing of your friend. She also says you showed rare bravery. Now all have seen the courage that you showed also on the dragon-mountain.”

Simon nodded, embarrassed. Snenneq made a throat-clearing noise and began a speech of his own. Simon waited patiently until Binabik could explain.

“Snenneq, herd-chief of Lower Chugik, says he, too, is sorry. Many good lives were lost yesterday. He also wishes to give you something back which you lost.”

The herder produced Simon's bone-handled knife, passing it to him with a show of reverence.

“It was taken from the neck of a dead giant,” Binabik said quietly. “The gift of the Qanuc has been blooded in defense of Qanuc lives. This means much to my people.”

Simon accepted the knife, sliding it back into the decorated sheath on his belt.
“Guyop,”
he said. “Please tell them I am glad to have it back. I'm not quite sure what ‘defense of Qanuc lives' means—we all fought the same enemy. But I don't want to think about killing just now.”

“Of course.” Binabik turned to Sisqi and the herder, speaking briefly. They nodded. Sisqi leaned forward to touch Simon's arm in wordless commiseration, then turned and led awkward Snenneq from the cave.

“Sisqi is leading the others in building the cairns of stone,” Binabik said. “And as for you, Simon-friend, there is nothing more to be done by you this day. Sleep.”

After tucking the cloak carefully around Simon's shoulders, Binabik disappeared out through the opening of the cavern, stepping carefully around the sleeping forms of the other wounded. Simon watched him go, thinking of Haestan and the rest of the dead. Were they even now traveling the road toward the complete stillness that Simon had glimpsed?

As he fell asleep, he thought he saw his Erkynlandish friend's broad back vanishing down a corridor into white silence. Haestan, Simon thought, did not seem to walk like a man who bore regrets—but then, it was only a dream.

Next day the noon sun pierced the mists, splashing light on Sikkihoq's proud slopes. Simon's pain was less than he had thought it would be. With Sludig's help, he was able to limp down from the cave to the flat shelf of rock where the cairns were being finished. There were ten, nine small and one large, the rocks carefully piled so that no wind or weather would shift them.

Simon saw Haestan's pale face, blood-striped, before Sludig and his troll helpers finished winding the guardsman's cloak about him. Haestan's eyes were shut, but his wounds were such that Simon could not maintain any illusion that his long-time companion only slept. He had been killed by the Storm King's brutal minions, and that was something to be remembered. Haestan had been a simple man. He would appreciate the notion of vengeance.

After Haestan had been laid away and the stones fitted atop his cairn. Binabik's nine tribesmen and tribeswomen were lowered into their own graves, each with some article particular to him or her—or so Binabik explained it to Simon. When this was done and the nine cairns were sealed, Binabik stepped forward. He raised his hand. The other trolls began to chant. There were tears in many eyes, both male and female; one glimmered on Binabik's own cheek. After some time had passed, the chanting came to a halt. Sisqi stepped forward, handing Binabik a torch and a small bag. Binabik sprinkled something from the bag on each grave, then touched the flame to it. A thin coil of smoke rose from each cairn in his wake, quickly shredded by the mountain wind. When he had finished the last, he handed the torch to Sisqi and began to sing a long string of Qanuc words. The melody was like the voice of the wind itself, rising and falling, rising and falling.

Binabik's wind-song came to an end. He took torch and sack and raised a plume of smoke on Haestan's barrow as well.

When he had finished singing, Binabik bowed to Haestan's cairn. “Farewell, brave man. The trolls will remember your name. We will sing of you in Mintahoq a hundred springs from now!” He turned to Simon and Sludig, who stood by solemnly. “Would you like to be saying something?”

Simon shook his head uncomfortably. “Only ... God bless you, Haestan. They will sing of you in Erkynland, too, if I have my way.”

Sludig stepped forward. “I should say an Aedonite prayer,” he said. “Your song was very good, Binabik of Mintahoq, but Haestan was an Aedonite man and must be properly shriven. ”

“Please,” Binabik said. “You have listened to ours.”

The Rimmersman took his wooden Tree from beneath his shirt and stood at the head of Haestan's cairn. The smoke continued to waver upward.

Sludig began,

Sludig laid his Tree atop the stones, then walked back to stand by Simon.

“One last thing let me say,” Binabik called out, raising his voice. He spoke the same words in Qanuc and his people listened attentively. “This is the first day in a thousand years that Qanuc and Utku—troll and lowlander—have been fighting at each other's side, have been blooded together and have fallen together. It is the hate and the hating of our enemy that has been bringing this upon us, but if our peoples can stand together for the battle that is coming—a greatest, but perhaps also last, battle—the deaths of all our friends will be even better given than they now are.” He turned and repeated the words for his tribesmen. Many of them nodded their heads, pounding their spear butts on the ground. From somewhere up the slope, Qantaqa howled. Her mournful voice echoed all over the mountain.

 

“Let us not forget them, Simon,” Binabik said as the rest of his fellows mounted up. “These, or any of the others who have already died. Let us be taking strength from the gifting of their lives—because if we fail, they will perhaps be seeming the lucky ones. Are you able to walk?”

“For a while,” Simon replied. “Sludig will walk with me.”

“We will not ride long today, for the afternoon has far advanced,” the troll said, squinting up at the white spot of sun. “But all speed is necessary. Half our company, nearly, we have lost in killing five giants. The Storm King's mountains to the west are full of such creatures, and we cannot be knowing there are not more nearby.”

“How long before your fellow trolls turn their own way,” Sludig asked, “to go to this Blue Mud Lake your master and mistress spoke of?”

“That is another thing for concern,” Binabik agreed grimly. “Another day or two days, then we will be three travelers only in the Waste.” He turned as a large gray shape appeared at his elbow, panting hugely. Qantaqa nudged him impatiently with her broad nose.
“Four
travelers, if I may be pardoned,” he amended, but did not smile.

Simon felt himself empty as they started down Sikkihoq's last reaches, hollowed out, so that if he stood just right the wind might whistle through him. Another friend was gone, and home was only a word.

The afternoon
was failing. Prince Josua's tattered minions were tumbled all together beneath a tangle of willows and cypresses in a moss-carpeted gulley that had once been a riverbed. A slender, muddy trickle ran along in the middle, all that remained of the watercourse. Above them rose a hilly slope whose heights were hidden behind close-crowding trees.

They had hoped to be atop the rise when the sun went down, a defensive position superior to anything they could hope to find in this thick-shrouded valley, but twilight was now imminent and the company's progress had slowed to a crawl.

Either they had guessed correctly, Deornoth reflected, and the Norns were indeed trying to herd them rather than kill them, or else they had been very lucky. Arrows had flown in biting swarms throughout the day. Several had found targets, but none of the wounds had been mortal. Einskaldir had been struck on his helmet, causing a gash above his eye that wept blood all the long afternoon. The back of Isorn's neck had been slashed by another arrow, and Lady Vorzheva had received a long, bloody weal on her forearm.

Surprisingly, Vorzheva had seemed almost unaffected by her injury, binding it with a strip of her tattered skirt and plodding on without a word of complaint. Deornoth had been impressed by this show of courage, but had also wondered if it might not be an indication of dangerous and despairing unconcern. She and Prince Josua were pointedly not speaking with each other. Vorzheva's face turned grim whenever the prince was near.

Josua, Father Strangyeard, and Duchess Gutrun had so far escaped damage. Ever since their fleeing troop had reached the gulley and had taken advantage of its scanty protection to fall down exhausted, they had all been busily engaged in binding of wounds. At the moment, the priest was tending to Towser, who had fallen sick during the march; the other pair were looking after Sangfugol's injuries.

Even if the Norns do not mean to kill us, they obviously intend to stop us,
Deornoth thought, rubbing his aching leg.
Perhaps they no longer care whether we have one of the Great Swords, or perhaps their spies told them we do not. But why don't they simply kill us, then? Do they wish to capture Josua?
Trying to understand the Norns was dizzying.
What should we do, in any case? Is it better to be shot to pieces and then captured, or to turn and fight to the death?