The Summon Stone

by Ian Irvine

  When they’d all finished mopping up the stew with some flat bread, and the second wineskin was empty, a comfortable silence settled on the camp. It seemed a shame to spoil it.

  “So why’re you out here?” asked Vargus.

  “Just travelling. Looking for work, like you,” said Korr.

  “You heard any news from the villages around here?”

  One of the men shifted as if getting comfortable, but Vargus saw his hand move to the hilt of his axe. Their fear was palpable.

  Korr shook his head. “Not been in any villages. We keep to ourselves.” The lie would have been obvious to a blind and deaf man.

  “I heard about a group of bandits causing trouble in some of the villages around here. First it was just a bit of thieving and starting a couple of fights. Then it got worse when they saw a bit of gold.” Vargus shook his head sadly. “Last week one of them lost control. Killed four men, including the innkeeper.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Korr. He was sweating now and it had nothing to do with the blaze. On the other side of the fire a snoozing man was elbowed awake and he sat up with a snort. The others were gripping their weapons with sweaty hands, waiting for the signal.

  “One of them beat the innkeeper’s wife half to death when she wouldn’t give him the money.”

  “What’s it matter to you?” someone asked.

  Vargus shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. But the woman has two children and they saw who done it. Told the village Elder all about it.”

  “We’re far from the cities out here. Something like that isn’t big enough to bring the King’s men. They only come around these parts to collect taxes twice a year,” said Lin with confidence.

  “Then why do you all look like you’re about to shit yourselves?” asked Vargus.

  An uncomfortable silence settled around the camp, broken only by the sound of Vargus scratching his stubbly cheek.

  “Is the King sending men after us?” asked Korr, forgoing any pretence of their involvement.

  “It isn’t the King you should worry about. I heard the village Elders banded together, decided to do something themselves. They hired the Gath.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “He ain’t real! He’s just a myth.”

  “Lord of Light shelter me,” one of the men prayed. “Lady of Light protect me.”

  “Those are just stories,” scoffed Lin. “My father told me about him when I was a boy, more than thirty years ago.”

  “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Vargus grinned.

  But it was clear they were still scared, more than before now that he’d stirred things up. Their belief in the Gath was so strong he could almost taste it in the air. For a while he said nothing and each man was lost in his own thoughts. Fear of dying gripped them all, tight as iron shackles.

  Silence covered the camp like a fresh layer of snow and he let it sit a while, soaking up the atmosphere, enjoying the calm before it was shattered.

  One of the men reached for a wineskin then remembered they were empty.

  “What do we do, Korr?” asked one of the men. The others were scanning the trees as if they expected someone to rush into camp.

  “Shut up, I’m thinking.”

  Before Korr came up with a plan Vargus stabbed him in the ribs. It took everyone a few seconds to realise what had happened. It was only when he pulled the dagger free with a shower of gore that they reacted.

  Vargus stood up and drew the bastard sword from over his shoulder. The others tried to stand, but none of them could manage it. One man fell backwards, another tripped over his feet, landing on his face. Lin managed to make it upright, but then stumbled around as if drunk.

  Vargus kicked Lin out of the way, switched to a two-handed grip and stabbed the first man on the ground through the back of the neck. He didn’t have time to scream. The archer was trying to draw his short sword, but couldn’t manage it. He looked up as Vargus approached and a dark patch spread across the front of his breeches. The edge of Vargus’s sword opened the archer’s throat and a quick stab put two feet of steel into Lin’s gut. He fell back, squealing like a pig being slaughtered. Vargus knew his cries would bring the others.

  The second cook was on his feet, but Vargus sliced off the man’s right arm before he could throw his axe. Warm arterial blood jetted across Vargus’s face. He grinned and wiped it away as the man fell back, howling in agony. Vargus let him thrash about for a while before putting his sword through the man’s face, pinning his head to the ground. The snow around the corpse turned red, then it began to steam and melt.

  The greasy-haired sentry stumbled into camp with a dagger held low. He swayed a few steps one way and then the other; the tamweed Vargus had added to the wine was taking effect. Bypassing Vargus he tripped over his own feet and landed face first on the fire. The sentry was screaming and the muscles in his arms and legs lacked the strength to lift him up. His cries turned into a gurgle and then trailed off as the smoke turned greasy and black. Vargus heard fat bubbling in the blaze and the smell reminded him of roast pork.

  As he anticipated, Rak wasn’t as badly affected as the others. His bulk didn’t make him immune to the tamweed in the wine, but the side effects would take longer to show. Vargus was just glad that Rak had drunk quite a lot before going on duty. The giant managed to walk into camp in a straight line, but his eyes were slightly unfocused. Down at one side he carried a six-foot pitted blade.

  Instead of waiting for the big man to go on the offensive, Vargus charged. Raising his sword above his head he screamed a challenge, but dropped to his knees at the last second and swept it in a downward arc. The Seveldrom steel cut through the flesh of Rak’s left thigh, but the big man stumbled back before Vargus could follow up. With a bellow of rage Rak lashed out, his massive boot catching Vargus on the hip. It spun him around, his sword went flying and he landed on hands and knees in the snow.

  Vargus scrambled around on all fours until his fingers found the hilt of his sword. He could hear Rak’s blade whistling through the air towards him and barely managed to roll away before it came down where his head had been. Back on his feet he needed both hands to deflect a lethal cut which jarred his arms. Before he could riposte something crunched into his face. Vargus stumbled back, spitting blood and swinging his sword wildly to keep Rak at bay.

  The big man came on. With the others already dead and his senses impaired, part of him must have known he was on borrowed time. Vargus ducked and dodged, turned the long blade aside and made use of the space around him. When Rak overreached he lashed out quickly, scoring a deep gash along the giant’s ribs, but it didn’t slow him down. Vargus inflicted a dozen wounds before Rak finally noticed that the red stuff splashed on the snow belonged to him.

  With a grunt of pain he fell back and stumbled to one knee. His laboured breathing was very loud in the still air. It seemed to be the only sound for miles in every direction.

  “Korr was right,” he said in a voice that was surprisingly soft. “He said you’d come for us.”

  Vargus nodded. Taking no chances he rushed forward. Rak tried to raise his sword but even his prodigious strength was finally at an end. His arm twitched and that was all. No mercy was asked for and none was given. Using both hands Vargus thrust the point of his sword deep into Rak’s throat. He pulled it clear and stepped back as blood spurted from the gaping wound. The giant fell onto his face and was dead.

  By the fire Lin was still alive, gasping and coughing up blood. The wound in his stomach was bad and likely to make him suffer for days before it eventually killed him. Just as Vargus intended.

  He ignored Lin’s pleas as he retrieved the gold and stolen goods from the cave. Hardly a fortune, but it was a lot of money to the villagers.

  He tied the horses’ reins together and even collected up all the weapons, bundling them together in an old blanket. The bodies he left to the scavengers.

  It seemed a shame to waste the stew. Nevertheless Vargus stuck two fingers d
own his throat and vomited into the snow until his stomach was empty. Using fresh snow he cleaned off the bezoar and stored it in his saddlebags. It had turned slightly brown from absorbing the poison in the wine Vargus had drunk, but he didn’t want to take any chances so made himself sick again. He filled his waterskin with melting snow and sipped it to ease his raw throat.

  Vargus’s bottom lip had finally stopped bleeding, but when he spat a lump of tooth landed on the snow in a clot of blood. He took a moment to check his teeth and found one of his upper canines was broken in half.

  “Shit.”

  With both hands he scooped more snow onto the fire until it was extinguished. He left the blackened corpse of the man where it had fallen amid wet logs and soggy ash. A partly cooked meal for the carrion eaters.

  “Kill me. Just kill me!” screamed Lin. “Why am I still alive?” He gasped and coughed up a wadge of blood onto the snow.

  With nothing left to do in camp Vargus finally addressed him. “Because you’re not just a killer, Torlin Ke Tarro. You were a King’s man. You came home because you were sick of war. Nothing wrong with that, plenty of men turn a corner and go on in a different way. But you became what you used to hunt.”

  Vargus squatted down beside the dying man, holding him in place with his stare.

  Lin’s pain was momentarily forgotten. “How do you know me? Not even Korr knew my name is Tarro.”

  Vargus ignored the question. “You know the land around here, the villages and towns, and you know the law. You knew how to cause just enough trouble without it bringing the King’s men. You killed and stole from your own people.”

  “They ain’t my people.”

  Vargus smacked his hands together and stood. “Time for arguing is over, boy. Beg your ancestors for kindness on the Long Road to Nor.”

  “My ancestors? What road?”

  Vargus spat into the snow with contempt. “Pray to your Lantern God and his fucking whore then, or whatever you say these days. The next person you speak to won’t be on this side of the Veil.”

  Ignoring Lin’s pleas he led the horses away from camp and didn’t look back. Soon afterwards the chill crept back in his fingers but he wasn’t too worried. The aches and pains from sleeping outdoors were already starting to recede. The fight had given him a small boost, although it wouldn’t sustain him for very long. The legend of the Gath was dead, which meant time for a change. He’d been delaying the inevitable for too long.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  THE SUMMON STONE,

  look out for

  HOPE & RED

  The Empire of Storms: Book 1

  by Jon Skovron

  In a fracturing empire spread across savage seas, two young people from different cultures find common purpose.

  A nameless girl is the lone survivor when her village is massacred by biomancers, mystical servants of the emperor. Named after her lost village, Bleak Hope is secretly trained by a master Vinchen warrior as an instrument of vengeance.

  A boy becomes an orphan on the squalid streets of New Laven and is adopted by one of the most notorious women of the criminal underworld, given the name Red, and trained as a thief and con artist.

  When a ganglord named Deadface Drem strikes a bargain with the biomancers to consolidate and rule all the slums of New Laven, the worlds of Hope and Red come crashing together, and their unlikely alliance takes them further than either could have dreamed possible.

  1

  Captain Sin Toa had been a trader on these seas for many years, and he’d seen something like this before. But that didn’t make it any easier.

  The village of Bleak Hope was a small community in the cold southern islands at the edge of the empire. Captain Toa was one of the few traders who came this far south, and even then, only once a year. The ice that formed on the water made it nearly impossible to reach during the winter months.

  Still, the dried fish, whalebone, and the crude lamp oil they pressed from whale blubber were all good cargo that fetched a nice price in Stonepeak or New Laven. The villagers had always been polite and accommodating, in their taciturn Southern way. And it was a community that had survived in these harsh conditions for centuries, a quality that Toa respected a great deal.

  So it was with a pang of sadness that he gazed out at what remained of the village. As his ship glided into the narrow harbor, he scanned the dirt paths and stone huts, and saw no sign of life.

  “What’s the matter, sir?” asked Crayton, his first mate. Good fellow. Loyal in his own way, if a bit dishonest about doing his fair share of work.

  “This place is dead,” said Toa quietly. “We’ll not land here.”

  “Dead, sir?”

  “Not a soul in the place.”

  “Maybe they’re at some sort of local religious gathering,” said Crayton. “Folks this far south have their own ways and customs.”

  “’Fraid that’s not it.”

  Toa pointed one thick, scarred finger toward the dock. A tall sign had been driven into the wood. On the sign was painted a black oval with eight black lines trailing down from it.

  “God save them,” whispered Crayton, taking off his wool knit cap.

  “That’s the trouble,” said Toa. “He didn’t.”

  The two men stood there staring at the sign. There was no sound except the cold wind that pulled at Toa’s long wool coat and beard.

  “What do we do, sir?” asked Crayton.

  “Not come ashore, that’s for certain. Tell the wags to lay anchor. It’s getting late. I don’t want to navigate these shallow waters in the dark, so we’ll stay the night. But make no mistake, we’re heading back to sea at first light and never coming near Bleak Hope again.”

  They set sail the next morning. Toa hoped they’d reach the island of Galemoor in three days and that the monks there would have enough good ale to sell that it would cover his losses.

  It was on the second night that they found the stowaway.

  Toa was woken in his bunk by a fist pounding on his cabin door.

  “Captain!” called Crayton. “The night watch. They found… a little girl.”

  Toa groaned. He’d had a bit too much grog before he went to sleep, and the spike of pain had already set in behind his eyes.

  “A girl?” he asked after a moment.

  “Y-y-yes, sir.”

  “Hells’ waters,” he muttered, climbing out of his hammock. He pulled on cold, damp trousers, a coat, and boots. A girl on board, even a little one, was bad luck in these southern seas. Everybody knew that. As he pondered how he was going to get rid of this stowaway, he opened the door and was surprised to find Crayton alone, turning his wool cap over and over again in his hands.

  “Well? Where’s the girl?”

  “She’s aft, sir,” said Crayton.

  “Why didn’t you bring her to me?”

  “We, uh… That is, the men can’t get her out from behind the stowed rigging.”

  “Can’t get her…” Toa heaved a sigh, wondering why no one had just reached in and clubbed her unconscious, then dragged her out. It wasn’t like his men to get soft because of a little girl. Maybe it was on account of Bleak Hope. Maybe the terrible fate of that village had made them a bit more conscious than usual of their own prospects for Heaven.

  “Fine,” he said. “Lead me to her.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Crayton, clearly relieved that he wasn’t going to bear the brunt of the captain’s frustration.

  Toa found his men gathered around the cargo hold where the spare rigging was stored. The hatch was open and they stared down into the darkness, muttering to each other and making signs to ward off curses. Toa took a lantern from one of them and shone the light down into the hole, wondering why a little girl had his men so spooked.

  “Look, girlie. You better…”

  She was wedged in tight behind the piles of heavy line. She looked filthy and starved, but otherwise a normal enough girl of about eight years. Pretty, even, in the So
uthern way, with pale skin, freckles, and hair so blond it looked almost white. But there was something about her eyes when she looked at you. They felt empty, or worse than empty. They were pools of ice that crushed any warmth you had in you. They were ancient eyes. Broken eyes. Eyes that had seen too much.

  “We tried to pull her out, Captain,” said one of the men. “But she’s packed in there tight. And well… she’s…”

  “Aye,” said Toa.

  He knelt down next to the opening and forced himself to keep looking at her, even though he wanted to turn away.

  “What’s your name, girl?” he asked, much quieter now.

  She stared at him.

  “I’m the captain of this ship, girl,” he said. “Do you know what that means?”

  Slowly, she nodded once.

  “It means everyone on this ship has to do what I say. That includes you. Understand?”

  Again, she nodded once.

  He reached one brown, hairy hand down into the hold.

  “Now, girl. I want you to come out from behind there and take my hand. I swear no harm will come to you on this ship.”

  For a long moment, no one moved. Then, tentatively, the girl reached out her bone-thin hand and let it be engulfed in Toa’s.

  Toa and the girl were back in his quarters. He suspected the girl might start talking if there weren’t a dozen hard-bitten sailors staring at her. He gave her a blanket and a cup of hot grog. He knew grog wasn’t the sort of thing you gave to little girls, but it was the only thing he had on board except fresh water, and that was far too precious to waste.

  Now he sat at his desk and she sat on his bunk, the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, the steaming cup of grog in her tiny hands. She took a sip, and Toa expected her to flinch at the pungent flavor, but she only swallowed and continued to stare at him with those empty, broken eyes of hers. They were the coldest blue he had ever seen, deeper than the sea itself.