The Stone of Farewell

by Tad Williams

  Fikolmij spat again, and this time did not bother to aim for the trough. “It was a chance to increase my strength. It worked. I stand today unquestioned lord of the High Thrithings.” He stared at Josua as if daring him to argue. “Besides, that treaty was with your father. For a stone-dweller, he was a mighty man. You are a thin shadow of him.”

  Josua’s face was empty. “I am tired of talking. Kill me if you wish, but do not bore me.”

  Fikolmij leaped forward. His broad fist crashed against the side of Josua’s head and the prince crumpled to his knees. “Proud talk, worm! I should kill you with my own hands!” The March-thane stood over Josua, his barrel chest heaving. “Where is my daughter!?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Fikolmij grabbed Joshua’s tattered shirt and pulled the prince onto his feet. Watching, Utvart swayed gently from side to side, his eyes dreamy. “And you don’t care, either, do you? By the Grass Thunderer, I have dreamed of smashing you—dreamed of it! Tell me of my Vorzheva, child-stealer. Did you at least marry her?”

  A bleeding welt showed at Josua’s temple. He stared back. “We did not wish to marry...”

  Another blow rocked the prince’s head. Blood started from his upper lip and nose. “How you laughed at old Fikolmij when you sat in your stone house, eh?” the March-thane hissed. “Stole his daughter and made her your whore, then did not have to pay a single horse for her! You laughed, didn’t you?” He slapped hard at the prince’s face; pearls of blood flew through the air. “You thought you could cut off my stones and run away.” The March-thane struck again, but though fresh blood seeped from Josua’s nose, this blow was softer, dealt with a kind of savage affection. “You are clever, Lackhand. Clever. But Fikolmij is no gelding.”

  “Vorzheva ... is ... no ... whore.”

  Fikolmij propelled him back against the wagon’s door. The prince left his arms dangling, making no attempt to defend himself as he was struck twice more. “You stole what was mine,” Fikolmij snarled, his face so close to Josua’s that his braided beard rubbed on the prince’s bloody shirtfront. “What would you call her, then? What did you use her for?”

  Josua’s red-smeared face, despite his injuries, had been full of a terrible calmness. Now, it seemed to break apart, dissolving into grief.

  “I ... used her badly ...” He hung his head.

  Utvart strode forward, drawing his sword from its tooled and beaded scabbard. The tip clicked against a ceiling beam. “Let me kill him,” he breathed. “Slow.”

  Fikolmij looked up, eyes squinting fiercely. Sweat dripped from his face as he looked from Utvart to Josua, then lifted his thick-knuckled fist over the prince’s head.

  “Let me,” Utvart pleaded.

  The March-thane hammered three times against the wall. The harnesses swayed, tinkling. “Hotvig!” he roared.

  The wagon door opened. Hotvig entered, pushing a slender figure before him. The pair stopped just within the doorway.

  “You heard all!” Fikolmij bellowed. “You betrayed your clan and me ... for this!” He gave Josua’s shoulder a push. The prince fell back against the wall and slid to the floor.

  Vorzheva burst into tears. Hotvig’s restraining hand held her back as she leaned forward to touch the prince. Josua slowly lifted his head, staring at her distractedly from eyes that were beginning to swell shut. “You are alive,” was all he said.

  She tried to pull away from her captor, but Hotvig grasped her close, ignoring the nails that raked at his arm, leaning his head away when she tried to reach his eyes.

  “Randwarders caught her in the outer grazing march,” Fikolmij growled. He slapped at her lightly, angered by her struggling. “Be still, you faithless bitch! I should have drowned you in the Umstrejha at birth. You are worse than your mother, and she was the evilest cow I have ever known. Why do you waste your tears on this piece of dung?” He prodded Josua with his foot.

  The prince’s absorbed look had returned. He regarded the March-thane with dispassionate interest for a moment before turning to Vorzheva. “I am glad you are safe.”

  “Safe!” Vorzheva laughed shrilly. “I love a man who does not want me. The man who does want me would use me like a brood mare and beat me if I ever left my knees!” She struggled in Hotvig’s grasp, turning to face Utvart, who had lowered his sword to the floor. “Oh, I remember you, Utvart! Why did I run away, except to get away from you, you raper of children—and of young sheep when you cannot get a child! You, who love your scars more than you ever could a woman. I would rather be dead than your bride!”

  Grim-faced Utvart said nothing, but Fikolmij snorted in dour amusement. “By the Four-Footed, I had almost forgotten that jagged knife you have for a tongue, daughter. Maybe Josua here is happy to feel the blows of fists for a change, eh? As for what you prefer, kill yourself the moment the marriage ride is over if you wish. I only want my bride-price and the honor of the Stallion Clan made good.”

  “There are better ways to do that than slaughtering helpless prisoners,” a new voice said.

  All heads turned—evenjosua’s, though he moved carefully. Geloë stood in the doorway, arms spread to the lintel, cloak rippling in the wind.

  “They have escaped from the bull run!” Fikolmij shouted wrathfully. “Don’t move, woman! Hotvig, saddle and bring the rest back. Someone will howl for this!”

  Geloë stepped into the wagon, which was rapidly becoming crowded. With a muffled curse, Hotvig pushed past her and out into the darkness. The witch woman calmly pulled the door closed behind him. “He will find them still penned,” she said. “Only I can come and go as I please.”

  Utvart lifted his broad blade and held it near her neck. Geloë’s hooded yellow eyes touched his and the tall Thrithings-man stepped back a pace, brandishing the sword as though he were menaced.

  Fikolmij looked her up and down with puzzlement and guarded anger. “What is your business, old woman?”

  Released from Hotvig’s grip, Vorzheva had dropped to her knees and crawled past her father to dab at Josua’s face with her tattered cloak. The prince gently caught her hand, holding it away as Geloë spoke.

  “I said, I come and go as I please. For now, I choose to be here.”

  “You are in my wagon, old woman.” The March-thane wiped sweat from his forehead with a hairy arm.

  “You thought to hold Geloë your prisoner, Fikolmij. That was foolish. Still, I have come to give you advice, in hopes that you have more sense than you have shown so far this day.”

  He seemed to fight an urge to strike out once more. Seeing his struggle, his strained look, Geloë nodded her head and smiled grimly.

  “You have heard of me.”

  “I have heard of a devil-woman with your name, one who lurks in the forest and steals the souls of men,” Fikolmij grunted. Utvart stood close behind him, mouth set in a tight line, but the tall man’s eyes were wide, and shifted as though he made certain of where the doors and windows were.

  “You have heard many false rumors, I am sure,” Geloë said, “but there is some truth behind them, however twisted it may have become. That truth is in the tales that say I make a bad enemy, Fikolmij.” She blinked slowly, as an owl blinks when it catches sight of something small and helpless. “A bad enemy.”

  The March-thane pulled his beard. “I do not fear you, woman, but I do not trifle with demons needlessly. You are no use to me. Go away, then, and I will not trouble you, but do not meddle in what does not concern you.”

  “Fool of a horse-lord!” Geloë flung up her arm, cloak trailing like a black wing. The door burst open behind her. The wind that swept in extinguished the lamps and plunged the wagon into near-darkness, leaving only the fire glowing scarlet in its trough like a door into Hell. Somebody cursed fearfully, barely audible above the moaning inrush. “I told you,” Geloë cried, “I go where I please!” The door swung shut again, although the witch woman had not moved. The wind was gone. She leaned forward so that her yellow eyes reflected restless flames. “What happens to
these people does concern me—and concerns you as well, although you are too ignorant to know it. Our enemy is your enemy, and he is greater than you can understand, Fikolmij. When he comes, he will sweep across your fields like a grassfire.”

  “Hah!” The March-thane smirked, but the nervous edge was not gone from his voice. “Do not preach to me. I know all about your enemy, King Elias. He is no more a man than Josua here. The Thrithings-men do not fear him.”

  Before Geloë could respond there was a rap at the door, which swung open to reveal Hotvig, bearing his spear and a puzzled expression. He was only a young man, despite his heavy beard, and he regarded the witch woman with undisguised dismay as he spoke to his chieftain.

  “The prisoners are still in the bull run. None of the men outside saw this one leave. The gate is locked, and there are no holes in the fence.”

  Fikolmij grunted and waved his hand. “I know.” The March-thane’s gaze shifted to Geloë for a brooding moment, then he smiled slowly.

  “Come here,” he ordered Hotvig, then whispered into the rider’s ear.

  “It will be done,” Hotvig said, darting a nervous glance at Geloë before going out again.

  “So,” Fikolmij said, and smiled broadly, showing most of his crooked teeth. “You think I should set this dog free to run away.” He shoved Josua with his foot, earning a swift glare of hatred from his daughter. “What if I do not?” he asked cheerfully.

  Geloë narrowed her eyes. “As I told you, March-thane: I make a bad enemy. ”

  Fikomij chortled. “And what shall you do to me, when I have told my men to kill the remaining prisoners unless I come to them myself before the next watch of the night to say otherwise?” He patted his hands on his belly in contentment. “I do not doubt you have charms and spells that can harm me, but now our blades are at each other’s throats, are they not?” In the corner of the wagon Utvart growled, as if excited by the image invoked.

  “Oh, horse-lord, may the world be preserved from such as you,” Geloë said disgustedly. “I hoped to convince you to help us, which would be for your good as much as ours.” She shook her head. “Now, as you say, our knives are out. Who knows if they may be put away without causing many deaths?”

  “I do not fear your threats,” Fikolmij growled.

  Geloë stared at him for a moment, then looked at Josua, who was still seated on the floor watching all that transpired with odd placidity. Lastly, she turned her gaze on Utvart. The tall man scowled fiercely, not at all comfortable under her scrutiny. “I think there is still one favor I can do for you, March-thane Fikolmij.”

  “I need no ...”

  “Quiet!” Geloë shouted. The March-thane fell silent, balling his fists, his reddened eyes bulging. “You are about to break your own laws,” she said. “The laws of the High Thrithings. I will help you avoid that.”

  “What madness are you speaking, devil-woman?!” he raged. “I am the lord of the clans!”

  “The clan councils honor no man as March-thane who breaks their old laws,” she replied. “I know this. I know many things.”

  With a sweep of his arm, Fikolmij sent a bowl flying from atop his stool to clatter against the wagon’s far wall. “What law? Tell me what law or I will throttle you even though you burn me to ashes!”

  “The laws of bride-price and betrothal.” Geloë pointed at Josua. “You would kill this man, but he is her betrothed. If another—she indicated brooding Utvart, ”—wishes to have her, he must fight for her. Is that not true, Thane?”

  Fikolmij smiled, a great rancid grin that spread across his face like a stain. “You have outsmarted yourself, meddler. They are not betrothed. Josua admitted that from his own lips. I would break no law to kill him. Utvart stands ready to pay the bride-price.”

  Geloë looked at him intently. “They are not married and Josua has not asked her. This is true. But have you forgotten your own customs, Fikolmij of the Stallion-Clan? There are other forms of betrothal.”

  He spat. “None but fathering ...” he broke off, forehead wrinkling in a sudden thought. “A child?”

  Geloë said nothing.

  Vorzheva did not look up. Her face was hidden by her dark hair, but her hand, which had stroked the prince’s bloodied cheek, froze like a snake-startled rabbit.

  “It is true,” she said finally.

  Josua’s face was a complicated puzzle of emotions, made even harder to read by the elaborate tracing of bruises and weals. “You... ? How long have you known... ? You said nothing ...”

  “I have known since just before Naglimund fell,” Vorzheva said. “I feared to tell you.”

  Josua watched the tears cutting new tracks along her dusty cheeks. He lifted his hand to touch her arm briefly before allowing it to drop back into his lap, then looked from Vorzheva up to Geloë. The witch woman held his eye for a long moment; some communicated thought seemed to pass between them.

  “By the Four-Footed,” Fikolmij growled at last, bemused. “A child-betrothal, is it? If it’s even his, that is.”

  “It is his, you pig!” Vorzheva said fiercely. “It could be no one else’s.”

  Utvart stepped forward, boot buckles chinking. His swordpoint thumped down into the floor boards, sinking half an inch into the wood. “A challenge, then,” he said. “To the death we fight.” He looked to Geloë and his expression became cautious. “Vorzheva, the March-thane’s daughter, she is spoils.” Turning back to the prince, he tugged his sword free. The great curved glade came loose as lightly as a feather. “A challenge.”

  Josua’s eyes were hard as he spoke through torn lips. “God hears.”

  Deornoth stared down at his prince’s battered features. “In the morning!?” he cried, loud enough to draw a scowl from one of the guards. The Thrithings-men, bundled in heavy woolen cloaks against the chill, did not look pleased with their assignment in the windy bull run. “Why do they not just kill you cleanly?”

  “It is a chance,” Joshua said, then surrendered to a fit of coughing.

  “What chance?” Deornoth said bitterly. “That a one-handed man who has been beaten bloody can get up in the morning and outfight a giant? Merciful Aedon, if I could only get my hands on that snake Fikolmij ... ”

  Josua’s only reply was to spit bloodily into the mud.

  “The prince is correct,” Geloë said. “It is a chance. Anything is better than nothing.”

  The witch woman had returned to the bull run to tend the prince. The guards had stepped back quickly to let her pass: something of her nature had traveled through the camp in swift whispers. Fikolmij’s daughter had not come with her. Vorzheva had been locked in her father’s wagon, tears of sorrow and anger still damp on her face.

  “But you had him at a disadvantage,” Deornoth said to the witchwoman. “Why did you not strike then? Why did you let him send guards?”

  Geloë’s yellow eyes glittered in the torchlight. “I had no advantage at all. I told you once, Sir Deornoth, I cannot make warlike magic. I escaped this stockade, yes, but other than that it was all bluff. Now, if you will be silent about what you do not know, I will put my true skills to their proper use.” She returned her attention to the prince.

  How did she escape the stockade? Deornoth could not help wondering. One moment Geloë had been wandering in the shadows at the far end of the bull run, the next she had been gone.

  He shook his head. It was useless to argue, and he had been little else but useless of late. He touched Josua’s thin arm. “If I may be of any help, my prince, only ask.” He dropped to his knees, then looked briefly to the witch woman. “I apologize for my unthinking words, Valada Geloë.”

  She grunted an acknowledgment. Deornoth rose and walked away.

  The rest of the starveling band was seated by the other fire. The Thrithings-men, being not entirely without mercy, had given them brush and twigs with which to build it. They were not merciless, Deornoth thought, but not stupid, either: such poor fuel would provide heat—barely—but could not be used as a weapon
, as could a flaming brand. The thought of weapons set him to musing as he seated himself between Sangfugol and Father Strangyeard.

  “This is a foul way to end things,” he said. “You have heard what has happened to Josua?”

  Strangyeard swung his slender hands. “They are untutored barbarians, these grasslanders. Mother Elysia, I know all men are equal in God’s eyes, but this is atrocious! I mean to say, even ignorance is not an excuse for such ... He trailed off fretfully.

  Sangfugol sat up, wincing at the pain in his leg. Anyone who knew him would have been astonished: the harper, previously meticulous in grooming and dress almost to the point of comedy, was as ragged, soiled, and burr-covered as a haystack vagabond. “And if Josua dies?” he said quietly. “He is my master and I love him, I suppose, but if he dies—what happens to us?”

  “If we are lucky, we will be little better than slaves,” Deornoth said, hearing his own words as if from another’s lips. He felt quite hollow. How had things come to such a point? A year earlier the world had been as regular as supper bread. “If we are unlucky ...” he continued, but did not finish his thought—nor did he need to.

  “It will be worse on the women,” Sangfugol whispered, looking over to Duchess Gutrun, who held sleeping Leleth on her lap. “These men are ungodly brutes. Have you seen the scars they give themselves?”

  “Isorn,” Deornoth called suddenly. “Come here, if you please.”

  Duke Isgrimnur’s son crawled around the meager fire to sit near them.

  “I think,” Deornoth said, “that we must prepare ourselves to do something tomorrow when Josua is made to fight.”

  Strangyeard looked up, worried. “But we are so few ... half a dozen in the midst of thousands.”

  Isorn nodded, a grim little smile showing on his wide face. “At least we can choose the way we die. I will not let them have my mother. The smile vanished. ”By Usires, I swear I would kill her first.”

  Sangfugol looked around as if hoping they would reveal their joke. “But we have no weapons!” he whispered urgently. “Are you mad? Perhaps we might live if we do nothing, but if we make trouble we will certainly die.”