Stonewiser

by Dora Machado

  “We're ready.” Delis stood by the kitchen door with their packed bags. “The Shield will find no trace of you here.”

  “I know I ask a lot,” Sariah said. “You have a choice, Mara.”

  “And turn you in to the Shield? Get all those youngsters killed? You didn't walk by us when we needed your help. I won't walk by you either.” Mara took the wrinkled parchment out of her pocket and laid it on the table. “Targamon Farm lives when it was dead. Let it be the beginning of this legacy you talk about.”

  Sariah cringed. “Burn that. The Shield will kill you for less.”

  “I'll burn the parchment, but I won't forget it,” Mara said. “Let it be known that Targamon was first to come when the stones called.”

  Twenty-six

  THE ESCAPE FROM Targamon Farm didn't go exactly as planned. By the end of the third day, when she was supposed to call the beam, the Shield was too close on Sariah's heels. Shielded warriors flooded the forest like ants fleeing ahead of a fire. Sariah could barely keep up with Delis's unrelenting pace. She hadn't had much sleep, and the constant running was sapping her strength. They burst into a small clearing. She tripped on the roots of a massive tree and stumbled against the trunk, gasping for breath.

  They heard the warriors before they saw them. The clang of shields and the march of booted feet came from all directions, converging on the clearing. The sound of men and horses crashing through the brush alerted Sariah to their considerable numbers.

  Delis's knuckles tightened on her hatchet's hilt. “We're going to have to fight them.”

  Was Delis mad? They couldn't fight that many and win. Sariah whispered a prayer and looked around for options. An enormous spreading chestnut towered above her. It was as confused by the weather as the rest of the forest was, thick with green leaves and lush with white flowering spikes despite the approaching chill.

  “This way.” Sariah grappled up the trunk. Delis boosted her to the lower branches and followed as Sariah struggled to reach the higher branches. She was no graceful climber, but it didn't matter. They were climbing for their lives.

  The first of the shielded warriors broke through the clearing, hollering for the others to follow. Sariah froze on a branch halfway up, hoping they couldn't be seen through the tree's expansive canopy.

  “We make camp here,” one of the men announced. “Prepare for the night patrols.”

  Here? At this very clearing?

  With an efficiency that matched their reputation for ruthlessness, the warriors began setting up camp. The forest was alive with men and women digging fire pits and latrines, collecting firewood, setting up neat rows of four-man tents, gathering water and heaving great cauldrons onto the fire pits. The camp sprouted before Sariah's eyes as if by magic.

  A commotion ensued at the far end of the clearing where the warriors halted their duties to salute the newest addition to the camp, a high ranking, heavily bulked commander riding a red stallion. Sariah recognized the face wedged between shield and helmet, the full lips, the wide nose underscored with long narrow nostrils which flared as he sniffed the air. The brown eyes unknowingly brushed over Sariah as he scoured the clearing.

  Arron. A heavy chill settled in her bones. Hundreds of men poured into the clearing behind him, spreading out into the camp and around the chestnut like the full moon's tide.

  Sariah considered putting a bursting stone to her sling. If she aimed well, he could be gone in a moment. But there was the small matter of his hundreds of followers. No stone she carried could tackle all of them. If she killed Arron, she would also kill Delis and herself. Worse, she would be surrendering everything she was set on saving, Ars, the legacy, the stones. Later then. She would kill him later.

  “The bracelet,” Delis mouthed.

  Sariah realized with a start that the sun was setting and the bracelet was beginning to issue its telltale glow. Carefully, she pulled her latest creation from her pocket. She wrapped her wrist with the triply folded weave she had stitched together. She had treated each layer with frog slime to prevent the bracelet from burning through the fabric. It should last her for a few days.

  The smell of ham and pea soup drifted through the clearing, an invitation to her hunger. Under a cold drizzle, the men and women of the Shield lined up before the bubbling cauldrons. Sariah's stomach rumbled. Mara's supplies had dwindled to nothing. When was the last time they had eaten?

  “Can't you see it's raining?” Arron's powerful voice boomed in the clearing. “Move my tent. Over there, you idiot. Set it under the spreading chestnut.”

  Arron's tent ended up right beneath Sariah's feet, complete with a sentinel posted at each of the tent's four corners. She fingered the stones in her pocket, cursing her reluctance to kill with them. She knew better. She had a stone that might work, one that would most likely wipe out the tent. Gone would be Arron's bloody rule over the Goodlands’ borders, her main obstacle to reach the Bastions, the man she feared. Would Arron's death bring unity to the land?

  A new group on horseback entered the clearing and was ushered to Arron's tent. Despite the drizzle, Sariah recognized the woman who dismounted from the lead horse. Short brown hair, brown eyes, arched eyebrows not unlike her own. Ilian. Sariah's stomach churned with acid. Ilian was Arron's loyalist. She had also been Sariah's first mistress, the stonewiser responsible for Sariah's brutal breaking. She held no fond memories of Ilian.

  Sariah recognized the other black-robed stonewisers who followed Ilian. Uma. Lorian. Olden. Half of the Guild's Council was present at Arron's tent. They didn't look happy to be here. In spite of Delis's disapproving glare, Sariah climbed down a few branches.

  “Where are Nestore and Altara?” Arron asked.

  “They refused to come,” Ilian said.

  “We're not fools enough to come together when you call,” Lorian said. “Death is the fastest way to turn over a Council seat. Isn't it?”

  The shadow of Arron's arm on the tent's canvas held up a goblet. “To my trusting peers and friends.” He drank the whole cup in one swallow.

  “You better have a good reason to call us here,” Lorian said. “The Goodlands aren't safe for riding these days.”

  “I take it you're still at the keep, living under Mistress Grimly's roof. It would be such a bloody affair if she found out you're here.”

  “Your threats don't scare me,” Lorian said. “You have seconds to tell me what you want. After that, I'll be gone.”

  “I wanted you to see Grimly's scam with your own two eyes.”

  “We saw little that mattered,” Lorian said. “Nothing capable of thought or reason.”

  “I took them as you commanded,” Ilian said. “But they weren't satisfied.”

  “It's hardly the proof you promised,” Uma said.

  Arron's voice rose a notch. “Grimly's behind it. You refuse to see it.”

  “Refuse to see what?” Lorian said. “What you want us to see? A broken, stuttering fool?”

  Who were they talking about? Had they caught Kael? No, it wasn't possible. Kael was no fool and he was too cunning to get caught. He was far from here and hopefully safe. And he wasn't proof of anything. Malord? She didn't think so either. His disguise was solid. The Council knew nothing about him. He wouldn't figure in any of Grimly's scams. No, Arron's unfortunate prisoner wasn't one of her friends. Who was he then?

  “How do I know this is not all your creation?” Lorian demanded.

  “Have you thrown your lot with Grimly then?” Arron said.

  Lorian's irritation was audible in her voice.” So this is what this meeting's about. Headcount? I have thrown my lot with the Guild. You, on the other hand, seem to have forgotten the stones we serve.”

  “Have you at least found the missing wiser?” Olden asked. “The appearance of order is important. As long as she's out there—”

  “We're close,” Arron said. “I can almost smell the bitch.”

  “You have the entire Shield at your command,” Lorian said, “yet you can't find a
single runaway stonewiser? That's not very impressive. Your failure doesn't bode well for your ambition.”

  “Are you suddenly feeling fit to do the dirty job yourself?” Arron said. “Or do you think that whining is somehow a desirable trait for a Prime Hand?”

  “We're not here to fight each other,” Ilian said. “We're here to discuss Grimly. Is she fit to be the Guild's Prime Hand? And what can we do if she isn't?”

  “You can't trust the witch,” Arron said. “Tell them, Ilian. Tell them what we know.”

  “Grimly has ruled the Guild for forty years,” Lorian said. “She was doing a fine job of it until you decided to throw the gauntlet on the whim of a bad lease. I need more than your word, Arron. Don't expect me to take sides without good reason.” She stomped out of the tent.

  “Don't call on me again unless you have a solution to this mess.” Uma followed Lorian.

  “I'll try to talk some sense into them,” Olden promised, before mounting his horse.

  As swiftly as the Council members had arrived, they departed with their respective escorts.

  The Council was cracking under the strain of the divide. Distrust was rampant, even among the highest of the high. Loyalty was dead. Who was Arron's mysterious prisoner and why had he failed to impress the other Council members?

  “Can you believe those fools?” Arron said. “How could they think that Grimly is innocent of plotting for her own purposes?”

  “She's a crafty old fox,” Ilian said. “We have another problem.” The shadow of Ilian showing Arron a sheaf of parchment played on the tent's roof.

  “Another one? Where did you find this one?”

  “I bought it from a peddler. They're selling like hot buns.”

  “I don't understand. How can it be everywhere when we know there's only one original?”

  “Someone wants it out there.”

  “Grimly?”

  “Or you.”

  “I don't have it,” Arron said. “Besides, how is this any advantage to me or her?”

  “I don't know,” Ilian said. “But I better stick to Uma for now. Otherwise, she and Olden might ride straight back to the keep and into Grimly's welcoming arms. You know Lorian is halfway there already.”

  Ilian took her leave. Sariah couldn't see through the tent's canvas, but she thought she knew what Arron and Ilian were talking about. Arron was right. How was it beneficial to him or to Grimly? She fingered the stone in her hand. Arron was within her reach. He would be dead in an instant. She stretched out her arm. All she had to do was drop the stone.

  The fire came from nowhere. Whistles preceded the solid thud of the arrows piercing the tent like glowing needles. The flames flared, consuming the canvas, reaching out to singe the chestnut's lower branches, sending Sariah and Delis clambering high in the tree.

  “Over there.” Delis's gaze was fixed on the opposite side of the clearing.

  Sariah heard Arron screeching and cursing inside the blazing tent. If she hadn't had to use both hands to climb away from the scorching heat, she might have overlooked all caution and added her stone to the attack. But by the time she made it to the treetop's safety, Arron had bolted out of his burning tent and the camp was in full alert.

  “You idiots.” Arron slapped his confused sentinels. “It's her! She wants to burn me again. Get the bitch.” He stumbled after his men barking orders, leaving a few of his minions to smother his tent's fiery remains.

  It struck Sariah strange that Arron would think her powerful enough to orchestrate an attack on his camp when she was as good as shipwrecked in a sea of Shield, marooned in the besieged chestnut and drowning in a plume of heated smoke. She spent another sleepless night stranded in the tree, pondering what she had heard this night and wondering who had attacked Arron. She watched as he rallied his men and commanded his patrols, so close and yet so far away from her stone's reach.

  On the tenth night after her escape from Targamon Farm, Sariah still hadn't called the beam. It wasn't that they hadn't made enough progress. On the contrary, using her new strategy, she and Delis had followed Arron and his warriors and arrived at the mountains’ foothills right behind them. Instead of trying to outrun the Shield, she had decided to trail it closely. It was safer that way, because Arron was concentrating on the forest ahead of him, combing it to the last bush and pine needle. It also allowed her to keep good tabs on the Shield without sacrificing her pace.

  The problem was that she couldn't call the beam to verify her destination without giving away her position. The Shield was too close. She could wait until they reached the mountains before she set up the game, but after that, she would be wasting time she didn't have.

  Sariah spotted a growth of thick brackens. She shook them to scare away the critters and then flattened the concealed undergrowth towards the middle to make a bed. She stretched her wet blanket over the fronds and lay down. She was likely to die from exhaustion.

  “Not bad, my donnis.” Delis laid her blanket next to hers. “A little wet, but at least the rain has stopped. Here's the last of Mara's corn biscuits for your dinner.”

  She had really liked Mara's biscuits hot from the oven. Now she gnawed on a hard, dry mockery of those biscuits, watching the clouds chasing each other in the dark sky above and wondering how Mara and Malord had fared with the Shield. It must have gone well enough. She hadn't spotted fire or smoke coming from Targamon's direction and the Shield had moved on too fast after her to account for an attack on the farm.

  She wondered how Kael was doing. He would be mad at her, but she had no doubt that he would understand her reasoning and do as she swore. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. He would be worried. Somewhere in Targamon Farm he waited for the sight of a beam that wasn't going to glow tonight either.

  The slightest touch traced her lips in the darkness. Delis. Her fingertips were light on her skin, outlining the shape of her face with barely a contact. Sariah didn't move. She kept her breathing steady and her eyes closed. Hadn't she endured much more than an unwanted caress from people as fickle and selfish as her Guild masters and mistresses?

  The rich scent of clove-spiced molasses dwarfed the humid frond's lush smell. A slight brush of cheeks announced the nearness of Delis's face, the slow, hovering approach of plush lips. Just when she expected the inexorable landing, something happened. Delis shook Sariah. When she opened her eyes, Delis crouched beside her, hatchet in hand.

  “What is it?”

  “Something's coming this way.”

  Sariah thanked Meliahs for the Domainers’ blessed hearing. They were the keenest creatures in the world. She waited among the ferns, stone in hand. She didn't see anything at first. Then, the tall sinister shape of an animal she didn't recognize lumbered from the woods.

  Something landed unexpectedly between Sariah and Delis, a stinking leg as wide as Meliahs’ pillars, standing on a paw the size of her head. Long claws brushed the bushes as the tall beast passed, unleashing a rain of shredded leaves on Sariah's face. Leandro's clawed terrors had arrived.

  Sariah would have screamed if Delis's hand hadn't landed over her mouth. She would have crawled and scurried out of the woods like a scared possum if Delis hadn't held her in place.

  The shadow looming over her moved on, matching the pace of its companions at either side. Those animals were hunting together, Sariah realized, like a pack of wolves, only they were most definitively not wolves. They were hunting humans. They were going after the Shield.

  “Shouldn't we run?” she whispered.

  “We stay put,” Delis murmured. “More. All around us.”

  A horrendous howl overtook the night. Vicious growling echoed from the Shield's camp. Voices shouting commands combined with the terrifying screams of those facing the beasts. Sariah had never seen Delis shaking like this.

  “Meliahs’ hounds,” Delis whispered. “Mara told me they dwelt here.”

  “That's just—”

  “Legend?” Delis peered into the forest in the direction of t
he Shield's camp. “Those things kill, my donnis. They're no legend.”

  “There must be an explanation—”

  “They're coming back.”

  They huddled together, watching in terrified silence as the beasts retraced their steps. The brackens shook under heavy paws. Sariah stole a quick glance up and saw a crumpled man skewered on a set of brutal claws. With a vicious swing, the creature strung the victim's guts on a gnarled oak. A broken rib cage, still pink with flesh, landed next to the brackens. Sariah swallowed a scream.

  The beast licked the blood off a cracked skull. It savored the dark flow for a moment, before dropping the mangled head and uttering a hair-raising howl. Howls answered from all directions, enlivening the night. Then, as quietly as they had come, the beasts lumbered away and disappeared into the woods.

  On the twentieth night after their escape from Targamon Farm, Sariah and Delis ventured around the Shield's camp and up the escarpment that led to the Bastions.

  “What if those things come back?” Delis asked.

  “Let's just pray they don't,” Sariah said.

  The beasts’ attack had rattled the Shield, but Arron didn't give up. In fact, after the beasts’ first attack, it had gotten more dangerous for Sariah and Delis. The Shield had increased their daily patrols and strengthened their night watches. Twice in the last few days, Sariah and Delis had come close to discovery by patrols in the woods. Once, they had stumbled upon the bloodied remains of a massacred Shield patrol. They had no doubts as to what had caused the carnage.

  The forest's varieties, pines, firs, cedars, tamaracks and leafless aspens stopped abruptly at an invisible line. The steep escarpment at the foot of the Bastions was dotted sparsely with juniper, spiny sagebrush and slippery rocks. The going was slow. In the darkness, Sariah walked carefully, mindful of twisting an ankle or breaking a foot. It was Delis who tripped. Crunch. Something tumbled and shattered against a rock.

  “Are you all right?”