Stone of Farewell

by Tad Williams

  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.

  9

  Cold and Curses

  The light was fading. 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?

  But did they even have a choice? The Norns were mere shadows in the forest. As long as they had arrows to shoot, the white-faced pursuers could do as they wished. What could Josua’s folk do to force them to fight?

  Fog was forming rapidly on the damp ground, turning the trees and stones indistinct, as though Josua’s people were trapped in some between-world that straddled life and death. An owl flitted silently overhead like a gray ghost.

  Deornoth struggled to his feet and went to help Strangyeard. The prince came to join them, watching as the priest swabbed Towser’s feverish brow with his kerchief.

  “It is a pity,” Strangyeard said without looking up. “A pity, I mean, that the fog is everywhere, but we still have so little clean water. Even the ground is wet, but it does us no good.”

  “If tonight is as damp and cold as the last,” Deornoth said, grasping Towser’s hand as the old man fretfully clutched at the kerchief, “we will be able to wring out our clothes and fill the Kynslagh.”

  “We must not spend the night here,” Josua said. “We must get to high ground.”

  Deornoth looked at him carefully. The prince was showing no signs of his earlier lassitude—in fact, Josua’s eyes were bright. He seemed to becoming back to life just as all around him were dying. “But how, my prince?” Deornoth asked “How can we hope to drag our bleeding bodies up that hill? We do not even know how high it is.”

  Josua nodded, but said, “Nevertheless, we must climb it before dark. What little ability to resist that we retain will be useless if they can comedown on us from above.”

  His fierce face daubed with dried blood, Einskaldir came and crouched beside them. “If only they would come within reach.” He dandled his axe and laughed sourly. “If we show ourselves, they pick us to pieces. They see better in dark than us.”

  “We must go up the slope all in a herd,” the prince said, “—huddled up like frightened cattle. Those on the outside will wrap their legs and arms in whatever thick clothing we have. That way, if they fear to make a fatal shot, they will be perhaps less likely to let fly into a crowd, where the missed wounding in the front may take a life in the rear.”

  Einskaldir grunted. “So we make us an unmissable target—cannot shoot one without shooting more. Madness!”

  Josua turned on him sharply. “You are not answerable for the lives of this company, Einskaldir. I am! If you would fight your own way, then go! If you would remain with us, then be silent and do as I say.”

  Several among the company who had been talking fell silent, waiting. The Rimmersman stared at Josua for a moment, his eyes blank, his bearded jaw twitching. Then he smiled in grim admiration.

  “Haja—yes. Prince Josua,” was all Einskaldir said.

  The prince put a hand on Deornoth’s shoulder. “We can do nothing else, even when hope is gone, but struggle on…”

  “There is still hope, if you will hear it.”

  Deornoth turned, expecting to find Duchess Gutrun standing by—for it had seemed an older woman’s voice, deep and a little hoarse—but Gutrun was tending the harper Sangfugol and was too far away to have been the source.

  “Who speaks?” Josua said, staring away from his companions, out into the forest. He drew his slender sword from its scabbard. Those around him fell silent, sensing his alarm. “I said, who speaks?”

  “I do,” the voice replied in a matter-of-fact way. The accent was that of one not native to the Westerling speech. “I did not want to catch you unaware. There is hope, I said. I come as a friend.”

  “Norn tricks!” Einskaldir snarled, hefting his axe as he tilted his head to locate the source of the voice.

  Josua raised his hand to hold him back and called: “If you are a friend, then why do you not come forward?”

  “Because I have not finished changing and I do not want to frighten you. Your friends are my friends—Morgenes of the Hayholt, Binabik of Yiqanuc.”

  Deornoth felt the hair stirring on his neck at the invisible being’s words. To hear those names here, in the middle of unknown Aldheorte! “Who are you?” he cried.

  There was a rustling in the shadowed undergrowth. A strangely-shaped figure stepped toward them through the rising fog. No, Deornoth realized, there were two figures, one large and one small.

  “In this part of the world,” the taller one said, with what sounded like a touch of amusement in her harsh voice, “I am known as Geloë.”

  “Valada Geloë!” Josua breathed. “The wise woman. Binabik spoke of you.”

  “Some say wise, some say witch,” she answered. “Binabik is small but polite. Such things we may talk about later, however. Now it grows dark.”

  She was not tall or particularly large, but there was something in her posture that spoke of strength. Her short-cropped hair was mostly gray, her nose prominent and sharp, with a downward curve. Geloë’s most arresting feature was her eyes: wide and heavy-lidded, they caught the dying sun with a peculiar yellow gleam, reminding Deornoth of nothing so much as a hawk or owl. So striking were they that it was some time before he noticed the young girl whose hand she held.

  This one was small, perhaps eight or nine years, and pale of face. Her eyes, although an unexceptional shade of dark brown, had much of the curious intensity of the older woman’s. But where Geloë’s gaze seized attention like an arrow quivering on a drawn string, the little girl looked starkly into nothingness, her stare as objectless as a blind beggar’s.

  “Leleth and I are here to join you,” Geloë said, “
—and to lead you if we may, at least for a short while. If you try to climb that hill, some of you will die. None of you will reach the summit.”

  “What do you know about it?” Isorn demanded. He looked confused. He was not the only one.

  “This. The Norns are reluctant to slay you—this is obvious, or a party like yours on foot would not have gotten a tenth this far into the forest. But if you cross that hill, you will have crossed over into territory through which the Hikeda’ya cannot follow. If there are any of you they do not need alive—and surely not all of you are valuable to them, if that is even the reason the Norns have let you get so far—they will take the risk of trying to kill the dispensable ones to frighten the rest off the slopes.”

  “So what are you telling us, then?” Josua asked, stepping forward. Their eyes locked. “Over this hill safety lies, but we dare not go there? What, should we lay down and die?”

  “No,” Geloë responded calmly. “I only said you should not climb the hill. There are other ways.”

  “Fly?” Einskaldir snarled.

  “Some do.” She smiled as at a quiet joke. “But all you need do is follow us.” Taking the girl’s hand again, she started off along the edge of the gulley.

  “Where are you going?” Deornoth cried, and felt a pang of fear at being left behind as the pair began to fade into the twilit shadows. “Follow,” Geloë called back over her shoulder. “Darkness is growing.” Deornoth turned to stare at the prince, but Josua was already helping Duchess Gutrun onto her feet. As the rest hurried to pick up their meager belongings, Josua walked briskly to where Vorzheva sat and extended his hand. She ignored him and got to her feet, then strode down into the gulley with head held high, like a queen in procession. The others followed limping after her, whispering wearily among themselves.

  Geloë stopped to wait for the farthest-trailing stragglers. At her side Leleth disconcertingly stared off into the forest, as if she expected someone.

  “Where are we going?” Deornoth asked as he and Isorn rested, scraping the slimy mud of the streambed from their boots. The harper Sangfugol, who could not walk without someone at either shoulder, was sitting on his own for a moment, breathing heavily.

  “We are not leaving the forest,” the witch woman said, inspecting the bit of purple sky that could be seen through the willow branches “But we will pass beneath the hill into a part of the old woods once known as Shisae’ron. As I said, the Hikeda’ya are not likely to follow us there.”

  “Pass under the hill? What can that mean?” Isorn demanded.

  “We walk in the bed of Re Suri’eni, an ancient river,” Geloë said. “When I first came here, the forest was a lively country, not the dark tangle it has become This river was one of many that spanned the great woods, carrying all manner of things and all manner of folk from Da’ai Chikiza to high Asu’a.”

  “Asu’a?” Deornoth wondered. “Was that not the Sithi name for the Hayholt?”

  “Asu’a was more than the Hayholt ever will be,” Geloë said sternly, her eyes searching for the last of the wandering line. “Sometimes you men are like lizards, sunning on the stones of a crumbled house, thinking ‘what a nice basking-spot someone built for me.’ You stand in the sad mud of what was a wide, beautiful river, where the boats of the Old Ones skimmed and flowers grew ”

  “This was a fairy river?” Isorn’s attention had been wandering. Now, startlement on his broad face, he peered around as though the streambed itself might exhibit signs of treachery.

  “Idiot!” Geloë said scornfully. “Yes, it was a ‘fairy river’. This entire land was—as you would put it—a fairy country. What sort of creatures do you think pursue you?”

  “I…I knew that,” Isorn muttered, abashed “But I had not thought of it that way. Their arrows and swords were real, that was all I could think of.”

  “As were the arrows and swords of your ancestors, Rimmersmannë, which accounts for some of the bad blood between your folk and theirs. The difference is, though King Fingil’s reavers killed many Sithi with thei rblades of black iron, Fingil and your other ancestors at last aged and died. The Children of the East do not die—at least, not in such a time as you can understand—and neither do they forget old wrongs. If they are old, they are all the more patient for it.” She stood up, looking about for Leleth, who had wandered off. “Let us go,” she called sharply. “Time to nurse wounds when we have passed through.”

  “Passed through where?” Deornoth asked. “How? You never told us.”

  “Nor need I waste my breath now,” she said. “We will be there soon.”

  The light was fading fast and the footing was treacherous, but Geloë was an unflagging guide. She had increased the pace, waiting only long enough for the first stragglers to catch up before pushing on again.

  The sky had taken on night’s earliest hues when the riverbed bent again. A darker shape suddenly loomed before them, a shadow tall as the trees and blacker than the surrounding obscurity. The walkers stumbled to a halt, those who could summon the breath moaning in weariness.

  Geloë took an unlit brand from her bag, handing it to Einskaldir. His sour remark died in his throat as she narrowed her yellow eyes. “Take this and put flint and steel to it,” she said. “We will at least need some light where we are going.”

  A furlong or less from where they stood, the streambed vanished into darkness as it entered a vast hole in the hillside, an arched mouth whose dressed stones had been almost completely engulfed by a clinging blanket of moss.

  Einskaldir struck with his axe head, a flint spark jumped, igniting the torch. Its growing yellow light brought forward other stones that shone pale beneath the overgrown frontage. Trees of great size and age had thrust out from the hillside above the arch, pushing aside the facing in their reach toward the sun.

  “A tunnel all the way through the hill?” Deornoth gasped.

  “The Old Ones were mighty builders,” Geloë said, “but never better than when they built around the things earth had already grown, so that city lived together with forest or mountain.”

  Sangfugol coughed “It looks…an abode of ghosts,” he whispered.

  Geloë snorted. “Even if so, they are not the dead that you should fear.” She seemed about to say something else when there was a hiss and a smack. Suddenly an arrow was shivering in the trunk of a cypress near Einskaldir’s head.

  “You who would flee,” a cold voice called, echoing so that it was impossible to discern its source, “you must surrender now. We have spared you thus far, but we may not allow you to cross through. We will destroy you all!”

  “Aedon preserve us!” Duchess Gutrun wept, her great courage finally weakening. “Save us, Lord!” She sagged down onto the wet turf.

  “It is the torch!” Josua said, coming up quickly. “Put out the torch, Einskaldir!”

  “No,” Geloë said, “you will never find your way in the dark.” She raised her voice “Hikeda’yei!” she cried, “do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, we know you, old woman,” the voice said. “But whatever respect you might deserve was lost the moment you threw in your lot with these mortals. The world could have spun on, leaving you undisturbed in your solitary house—but you would not let well enough alone. Now you also are unhomed, and must go naked like a crab with no shell. You too can die, old woman.”

  “Douse the torch, Einskaldir,” Josua snapped, “we can light another when we have reached shelter.”

  The Rimmersman stared at the prince for a moment. Darkness had arrived; but for the torch’s rippling flame, Josua would never have seen him smile.

  “Don’t wait too long to follow me,” was all Einskaldir said. A moment later he had dashed away down the riverbed toward the great arch, the flame held high over his head. Arrow hissed past his companions as the Rimmersman, now only a leaping spot of light, swerved and dodged.

  “Go! Up and run!” Josua cried. “Help the one nearest you. Run!”

  Someone was shouting in an alien tongue�
��indeed, the whole forest seemed suddenly alive with noise. Deornoth reached down and caught at Sanfugol’s arm, dragging the wounded harper to his feet, and together they plunged through the overhanging greenery after the dwindling spark of Einskaldir’s torch.

  Branches slapped at their faces and snatched at their eyes with cruel talons. Another shout of pain rang out before them and the shrill cries redoubled. Deornoth turned to look briefly over his shoulder. A swarm of pale shapes were sweeping forward over the misty ground, faces whose pitchy eyes filled him with despair, even from afar.

  Something struck the side of Deornoth’s head violently, staggering him. He could hear Sangfugol sobbing in pain as the harper tugged at his elbow. For a long moment it seemed to the knight that it would be easier just to lie on the ground.

  “Merciful Aedon, give me rest,” he heard himself praying, “in Your arms will I sleep, upon Thy bosom I will take my peace…” but Sangfugol would not stop pulling at him. Dazed, irritated, he stumbled to his feet once more and saw a scatter of stars gleaming through the treetops.

  Not enough light to see under the hill, he thought, then noticed he was running again. But running or not, Deornoth thought, he and Sangfugol were moving very slowly: the dark smear on the hillside didn’t seem to begetting any closer. He put his head down and watched his feet, dim, shadowy shapes slipping on the muddy streambed.

  My head. I’ve hurt my head again…

  The next thing Deornoth knew, he had plunged into darkness as abruptly as if someone had thrown a sack over him. He felt more hands take his elbows and help him forward. His head felt curiously light and empty.

  “There’s the torch, ahead,” someone said nearby.

  That sounds like Josua’s voice, Deornoth decided. Is he under the sack, too?

  He staggered on a few steps and saw a light glowing. He looked down, trying to make sense of it all. Einskaldir sat on the ground, leaning against a stone wall that rose and curved overhead. The Rimmersman held a torch in his hand. There was blood in his beard.