Stone of Farewell

by Tad Williams

  Simon saw little that was unusual. The sheltering hills were thatched with snow and many of the trees that surrounded the lake were bare of leaf. The evergreens were mantled in white, like cotton-wool spears.

  Many of the trolls brought the heels of their hands to their chests, as if what they saw spoke more eloquently of trouble than any words of Binabik or his master Ookequk. As they spurred their mounts along the narrow trail, Simon and Sludig trudged forward once more, following the tracks of the rams into the lake valley. Another flurry of snow came sifting down from Sikkihoq.

  They made camp at a great cavern on the lake’s northwestern banks. The cave was surrounded by well-worn pathways. The massive stone firepit, nearly brimful with frozen ash, testified to the generations of trolls who had camped there. Soon a huge fire, the biggest they had made since leaving Mintahoq, was burning by the lakeside. As darkness fell and the stars began to kindle, the flames threw wild shadows on the rocky faces of the hills.

  Simon was sitting near the fire oiling his boots when Binabik found him. At the troll’s bidding, he put the boots back on and took a burning brand from the blaze, then followed Binabik away into the darkness. They walked along the edge of the hillside for a furlong, circling around the lakeshore until they reached another cave, its high entranceway almost hidden behind a stand of spruces. A strange whistling noise came from within. Simon knitted his brows in apprehension, but Binabik only smiled and waved at him to follow, pushing back a low-hanging branch with his walking stick so taller Simon could enter without catching his torch in the trees.

  The cavern was thick with the smell of animals, but it was a familiar smell. Simon lifted the brand so the light splashed the farthest depths of the cavern. Six horses looked back, whinnying nervously. The cavernfloor was piled high with dried grass.

  “Good that is,” Binabik said, coming up beside him. “I had been fearing they might have run away, or the food might not have been of sufficiency.”

  “Are they ours?” Simon asked, approaching slowly. The nearest horse fluttered its lips and danced back a step; Simon held out his hand for it to smell. “I think they are.”

  “Of course,” Binabik chuckled. “We Qanuc are not horse-murderers. My folk put them here for safety when we were all taken up-mountain. We also keep this place for our rams when they are birthing and the weather is cold. From now on, Simon-friend, you need be walking no more.”

  After stroking the nearest horse, which submitted grudgingly but did not pull away, Simon saw the gray and black spotted mare he had ridden from Naglimund. He moved toward her, wishing he had something to give her.

  “Simon,” Binabik called, “catch!”

  He turned in time to receive something small and hard, which crumbled slightly as he clutched it in his palm.

  “Salt,” Binabik said. “I brought it from Mintahoq- I have brought one lump for each. The rams have a great fondness for salt and I am guessing your horses will, too.”

  Simon offered it to the gray-and-black. She took it, her mouth tickling his hand. He stroked her powerful neck, feeling it tremble beneath his fingers. “I don’t remember her name,” he whispered sadly. “Haestan told me, but I forgot.”

  Binabik shrugged and began distributing the salt among the other horses.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Simon told the mare. “I’ll give you a new name. How about ‘Homefinder’?”

  Names did not seem to be very important to her. She flicked her tail and nosed Simon’s pockets for more salt.

  When Simon and Binabik got back to the fire the kangkang was flowing vigorously and the trolls were singing, rocking back and forth before the flames. As they approached, Sisqi detached herself from the group and came to take Binabik’s hand, silently laying her hooded head upon his shoulder. From a distance the trolls sounded as though they were having a hilarious time of it, but as Simon drew nearer the expressions on their faces told differently.

  “Why do they look so sad, Binabik?”

  “We are having a saying on Mintahoq,” the little man explained, “—‘Mourning is for home.’ When we are losing one of our folk on the trail we bury them in that place, but we save our tears until we are safe in our caves once more. Nine of our folk died on Sikkihoq.”

  “But you said ‘mourn at home.’ These people are not home yet.”

  Binabik shook his head, then answered a quiet question from Sisqi before returning his attention to Simon. “These hunters and herders are making ready for the coming of the rest of Yiqanuc’s folk. The word is even now flying from one mountain to another: the highlands are not a place of safety and spring is not coming.” The little man smiled wearily. “They are home, Simon-friend.”

  Binabik patted Simon’s hand, then he and Sisqi veered off toward the fire to join the chorus. The blaze was fed and the flames leaped higher, so that all the lake valley seemed to glow with orange light. The mourning-songs of the Qanuc echoed out across the still waters, carrying even above the bitter voice of the wind and the rush of the falls.

  Simon went off in search of Sludig. He found the Rimmersman bundled in his cloak a short distance from the fire, sitting on a rock with a skin full of kangkang between his knees. Simon sat down beside him and took along swallow from the offered wineskin, sucking cold air afterward. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and handed it back.

  “Have I told you of the Skipphavven, Simon?” Sludig asked, staring at the fire and the swaying trolls. “You have not seen beauty until you have seen the maidens who gather mistletoe from the mast of Sotfengsel, Elvrit’s buried ship.” He took a drink and passed it to Simon. “Ah, sweet God, I hope Skali of Kaldskryke at least has enough Rimmersman pride to tend to the graves of the longships at the Skipphavven. May he rot in hell.”

  Simon took two more long pulls on the wineskin, hiding the faces he made from Sludig. The kangkang tasted awful, but it warmed him. “Skali is the one who took Duke Isgrimnur’s land?” he asked.

  Sludig looked over, a little blearily. He had been working at the skin for some time. “He is. Black-hearted, treacherous son of a wolf-bitch and a carrion crow. May he rot in Hell. It is blood feud now.” The Rimmersman pulled meditatively at his beard and turned his gaze upward to the stars. “It is blood feud all over the world, these days.”

  Simon looked up with him and saw an advancing line of dark clouds out of the northwest obscuring the stars along the horizon. For a moment he thought he could see the Storm King’s dark hand reaching out, blotting light and warmth. He trembled, pulling his cloak tighter, but the cold did not go away. He reached for the skin again. Sludig was still staring upward.

  “We are very small,” Simon said between swallows. The Kangkang seemed to be flowing in his veins like blood.

  “So are the stars, kundë-mannë,” Sludig murmured. “But they each one burn as bright as they can. Have another drink.”

  Later—in truth, Simon was not sure exactly how much time had passed, or what had become of Sludig—he found himself seated on a log beside the fire, Sisqi on one side of him, the bearded herder Snenneq on the other. They were all holding hands. Simon reminded himself to be gentle with the small, rough palms folded in his own. All around him the trolls swayed and he swayed with them. They sang, and although he did not understand the words of their song, he added his voice to theirs, listening to the brave roar they all made beneath the night sky, feeling his heart beating in his chest like a drum.

  “Do we really have to go today?” Simon asked, struggling to hold the saddle in place while Sludig tightened the belly-strap. The single torch did not throw much light in the darkened cave that served as a stable. Beyond the wall of spruces dawn was unfolding.

  “It is seeming a good thought to me,” Binabik said, voice muffled, his head hidden by a leather flap as he inspected the saddlebags. “Chukku’s Stones! Why am I not waiting until we are outside in the light? Like hunting white weasels in deep snow, this is.”

  “I would have liked a day to rest,” Simon sa
id. In fact, he was not feeling too badly, considering all the Qanuc liquor he had drunk the night before; but for a faint hammering in his temples and a certain weakness in his joints, he was doing fairly well.

  “As would I. As also, no doubt, would Sludig…” the troll replied. “Ah! Kikkaksut! There is something sharp in here!”

  “Hold that damned thing!” Sludig growled as the saddle jerked free of Simon’s grasp. The horse nickered in irritation and jogged a step to the side before Simon grasped the saddle again.

  “But, you are seeing,” Binabik continued, “we have no knowledge how long it will take to cross the Waste. If winter is spreading, the sooner this is done will make the better for us. There are others, too, who may be carrying word of us to ears that are not friendly. We are not knowing who survived Urmsheim from the huntsman’s troop. They saw Thorn, I am thinking.” He patted the sword, which was now wrapped in hides and strapped to the back of Simon’s saddle.

  The mention of Ingen Jegger made Simon’s stomach—already uneasy after a morning meal of dried fish—twist. He did not like to think of the terrible Queen’s Huntsman in his snarling-muzzled helm, who had pursued them like an avenging ghost.

  Please, God, Simon thought, let him be dead on the dragon-mountain. We don’t need any more enemies, especially one like him.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said heavily. “But I don’t like it.”

  “What was it that Haestan used to say?” Sludig asked, straightening up. “ ‘Now you know what it is like to be a soldier’?”

  “That’s what he used to say.” Simon smiled sadly.

  Sisqinanamook and her folk gathered around as Simon and his companions brought out their saddled mounts. The Qanuc men and women seemed torn between the ceremonies of leave-taking and the fascination inspired by the horses, whose legs were longer than the herders and huntresses were tall. The horses shuffled nervously at first as the little people stroked and patted them, but the trolls seemed to have learned more than a little in their generations of sheepherding; the horses soon gentled, pluming the frosty air with their breath as the Qanuc admired them.

  At last Sisqi waved for order, then spoke rapidly to Simon and Sludig in the language of the Trollfells. Binabik smiled and said: “Sisqinanamook bids you farewell on behalf of the Mintahoq Qanuc and our Herder and Huntress. She says that the Qanuc people have seen many new things in late days, and though the world is changing for worse, not all the changes are being for bad.” He nodded to Sisqi and she spoke again, now fixing her eyes on Sludig.

  “Good-bye, Rimmersman,” Binabik translated. “You are the kindest Croohok she has ever heard about, and none of the folk who stand here are now afraid of you any more. Tell your Herder and Huntress –” he grinned, perhaps imagining Duke Isgrimnur answering to either title,”—that the Qanuc are being a brave folk, too, but also a just folk who do not like pointless fighting.”

  Sludig nodded “I will.”

  Sisqi turned her attention to Simon. “And you, Snowlock, do not be afraid. She will tell any of the Qanuc back on Mintahoq who wonder at the story of your dragon-lashing about the bravery she has been able to witness. Any others here will be doing the same.” He listened carefully for a moment, then grinned. “She also urges you for being careful of her intended—who is me—and for using your bravery to keep him safe. This she is asking in the name of new friendship.”

  Simon was touched. “Tell her,” he said slowly, “that I will protect her intended—who is also my friend—to death and beyond.”

  As Binabik relayed his words, Sisqi stared at Simon, her eyes intent and serious. When the troll had finished, Sisqi bowed her head toward them, stiff and prideful. Simon and Sludig did the same. The other Qanuc pressed forward, touching those who were about to leave as though to send something with them. Simon found himself surrounded by small, black-haired heads, and again had to remind himself that the trolls were not children, but mortal men and women who loved and fought and died just as bravely and seriously as any knight of Erkynland. Callused fingers squeezed his hand and many things that sounded kind were said to him in words he could not understand.

  Sisqi and Binabik had wandered off from the others, back toward the sleeping cave. When they got there, Sisqi ducked in, emerging a moment later with a long spear in her hands, its shaft busy with carvings.

  “Here,” she said. “You will need this where you are going, beloved, and it will be longer than nine times nine days before you return. Take it. I know we will be together once more—if the gods are kind.”

  “Even if they are not.” Binabik tried to smile, but could not. He took the spear from her and rested it against the facing of the cave. “When we meet again, may it be granted that it is beneath no shadow. I will hold you in my heart, Sisqi.”

  “Hold me against you now,” she said quietly, and they stepped forward into each other’s arms. “Blue Mud Lake is cold this year ”

  “I will be back…” Binabik began.

  “No more talk. Our time is short.” Their faces came together, vanishing as their hoods touched each other, and they stood that way for a long time. They were both trembling.

  PART TWO

  Storm’s Hand

  11

  Bones of the Earth

  It was often said that of all the lands of men in Osten Ard, secrets ran deepest in Hernystir. Not that the land itself was hidden, like the fabled Trollfells lurking beyond the icy fence of the White Waste, or the land of the Wrannamen, shrouded in treacherous swamps. The secrets Hernystir kept were hidden in the hearts of its people, or below its sunny meadows, deep in the earth.

  Of all mortal men, the Hernystiri once had known and loved the Sithi best. They learned much from them—although the things they had learned were now mentioned only in old ballads. They had also traded with the Sithi, bringing back to their own grassy country articles of workmanship beyond anything the finest smiths and craftsmen of Imperial Nabban could produce. In return, the Hernystirmen offered their immortal allies the fruits of the earth—nightblack malachite, ilenite and bright opal, sapphire, cinnabar, and soft, shiny gold—all painstakingly mined from the thousand tunnels of the Grianspog Mountains.

  The Sithi were gone now, vanished absolutely from the earth as far as most men knew or cared. Some of the Hernystiri knew better. It had been centuries since the Fair Ones had fled their castle Asu’a, deserting the last of the Nine Cities accessible to mortal man. Most mortals had forgotten the Sithi entirely, or saw them only through the distorting veil of old stories. But among the Hernystiri, an open-hearted and yet secretive folk, there were still a few who looked at the dark holes that pitted the Grianspog and remembered.

  Eolair was not particularly fond of caves. His childhood had been spent upon the grasslands in the meadows of western Hernystir, at the conjoining of the Inniscrich and the Cuimnhe rivers. As Count of Nad Mullach, he had ruled over that territory; later, in service to his king, Lluth ubh-Llythinn, he had traveled to all the great cities and courts of Osten Ard, carrying out Hernystir’s wishes beneath the lights of countless lamps and the skies of every nation.

  Thus, although his bravery was questioned by no one, and though his oath to King Lluth meant he would follow Lluth’s daughter Maegwin to the fires of perdition if that were his duty, he was not altogether pleased to find himself and his people living deep in the rock of the mighty Grianspog.

  “Bagba bite me!” Eolair cursed. A drop of burning pitch had fallen on his sleeve, scorching his arm through the thin cloth in the time it took him to put it out. The torch was guttering and would not last much longer. He considered lighting the second, but that would mean it was time to turn back; he was not ready to do that. He briefly weighed the risks of finding himself stuck without light in an unfamiliar tunnel deep in the bowels of the earth, then cursed again, quietly. If he had not been such a hasty idiot, he might have remembered to bring his flints with him. Eolair did not like making that sort of mistake. Too many errors of such an obvious s
ort and one’s luck would at last run out.

  His sleeve extinguished, he turned his attention back to the forking of the tunnel, squinting at the floor in the vain hope of seeing something that would help him decide which way to go. Seeing nothing, he hissed in exasperation.

  “Maegwin!” he called, and heard his voice go rolling out into darkness, echoing down the tunnels. “My lady, are you there?”

  The echoes died. Eolair stood in silence with a dying torch and wondered what to do.

  It was painfully evident that Maegwin knew her way about this underground maze far better than he did, so perhaps his concern was misplaced. Surely there were no bears or other animals dwelling this far in the depths, or they would have made themselves apparent by now. The tattered remainder of Hernysadharc’s citizens had already spent a fortnight in the mountain deeps, building a new home for an unhomed people among the bones of the earth. But there were other things to fear down here beside wild beasts; Eolair could not so lightly dismiss danger. Strange creatures walked in the heights of the mountains, and there had been mysterious deaths and disappearances all across the face of the land long before Skali of Kaldskryke’s army came at King Elias’ bidding to put down the rebellious Hernystirmen.

  Other, more prosaic dangers might await as well: Maegwin could fall and break a leg, or tumble into an underground river or lake. Or she might overestimate her own knowledge of the caverns and wander lost and lightless until she died from starvation.

  There was nothing to do but go on. He would walk a short way farther, but turn to go back before his torch was half-consumed. That way, by the time darkness overcame him he should be within hailing distance of the caverns that now housed the greatest remnant of the Hernystiri nation-in-exile.

  Eolair lit his second torch with the smoldering remains of the first, then used the smoking butt of the expired brand to mark the wall at the forking of the tunnels with the signature runes of Nad Mullach. After a moment’s consideration he chose the wider of the two ways and started forward.