Stillbright

by Daniel M Ford

  His weightless and invisible form stretched and expanded, his wings growing huge and ready to pound the air and throw him forward like a spear, but then a new thought overcame him, and just as quickly the wings became leathery, his neck stretched and thinned and his face became a snout rather than a beak, and feathers drew flat against his body and turned into scales.

  With a contemptuous snort that turned the air in front of him to steam, the Will of the Mother, in the aspect of a great dragon of the air, dove for the nearest of the Sea Dragon’s priests.

  He would admit that the irony appealed to him.

  His jaws closed around one of the fleeing birds before it even knew what hunted it.

  * * *

  Oritius fell to the ground like a man stunned by a hammer blow. With their leader down, the others instantly abandoned their task, drawing their wills back through the globe in the center of the room into themselves.

  “Oh, Braech,” one cried out, as they all stared at the artifact in dawning horror. “It follows!”

  And then some enormous Will, something that dwarfed any of them on their own, was in the room with them. Its attention fixed upon the globe, and almost contemptuously, they heard a simple, resonant, “No.”

  * * *

  Gideon’s form slowly materialized on the ground in Thornhurst again. “Let them go, Torvul,” he said hoarsely “And if someone would bring me water I would…” He coughed then, weakly, and sank forward onto the ground, hands and knees both beneath him.

  The dwarf cut the ropes holding the risers, and the contraptions sped into the air and towards the clouds.

  * * *

  Symod paced the room that had held the artifact, the globe which the Sea Dragon’s priests had used for hundreds of years to monitor the weather, to assist or impede vessels at sea, to guide their favored army or stymie the efforts of another.

  Nothing was left of it but fragments of crystal and blobs of melted metal. There was a rap at the doorway behind him. Symod did not turn around.

  “They say that Oritius’s mind is gone,” Evolyn ventured cautiously. She chose her steps carefully, stepping between hunks of the blue crystal. “He lives, but with no more sense than an infant.”

  “Better to send him to Braech than to let him live on as a mockery of what he was,” Symod replied, his deep and rolling voice subdued in the wreckage of the room. “What of the others?”

  “They will live, though the chirurgeons will have a long night of it, picking fragments of crystal and metal out of their skin. They do babble, though.”

  “What of?”

  “A dragon in the clouds. A demon of the sun. An air spirit that cut and burned and pursued them.”

  “What is it, then? A dragon or a demon?”

  Evolyn sighed. “They do not know, Symod.” She bent down and picked up a bent and twisted blob of metal that had been one of the main islands of the Archipelago. “Will the destruction of the artifact fall back upon us?”

  “Oritius was in charge. He has paid. We set the course, but did not steer the ship. If anything, it will drive the rest of the Choironate into our arms. They’ll have no choice but to see Allystaire as a threat now.”

  Evolyn recalled her one face-to-face encounter with the paladin, frowned, and stole a glance at Symod. He projected calm and poise, yet there were new lines graven into the sides of his face, a pinched quality to his cheeks that belied the smooth surface, the aura of easy power. “Do you think this was him? The paladin?”

  “Certainly not. He hasn’t that kind of power, whatever he is.”

  “He seems more likely to confront you more personally.”

  “Why, Lady Lamaliere,” Symod said, turning the full force of his sea-green eyes upon her. “That almost sounds like admiration.”

  A tiny note of panic sounded in Evolyn’s head, but she suppressed it, and didn’t waste time wondering if any of it showed in her features. It hadn’t. “Not at all, Choiron. Merely that this does not seem like his work. And, if I may speak freely…”

  “Your rank entitles you to that.”

  “It does not seem Braech’s way to confront our enemies thus. To attempt to use our wills to, what, make a few score peasants starve to death?”

  “We play a greater game. Surely you are aware of the stakes.”

  “Why not simply scatter them? Trod the place to dust. Salt the ground. Tear the stones of their would-be temple down and use them to build a shrine to the Sea Dragon.”

  “And it would be so simple? Perhaps I should simply give you command of some men and have you take charge of it.” Symod took three slow steps towards her, a faint air of menace gathering around him, as bits of crystal shattered under his boots. “And yet I already did as much, at great expense and much risk. And after that, your assassin failed—at great cost to our Temple’s treasury. Why should I throw two or three score more men, and all it would cost, after that one? That one who could not fail, and yet did.”

  “There are unforeseen powers among them, Choiron,” Evolyn said, meeting him eye to eye and standing her ground. “There must be. Without the corrective immediately to hand he should have died.”

  “And yet he lives, and this new faith grows. Tales of the ‘Arm’ and ‘the Shadow’ have even reached the Archipelago. Here, in our city, where the Sea Dragon first roared, there are people who speak of them, speak of some inland cult of weaklings. Already the rabble of the baronies flock there. Do you know what happens if our own begin to do this? Have you any idea what it means? With greater numbers, greater power. Literally! Their goddess’s strength will wax, and it will be us, and our allies in Fortune’s Temple, that suffer.”

  “Fortune’s delegation met with failure.” In fact, Evolyn pondered the message she had just received, the first letter arriving on Keersvast explaining what had happened. Their losses, the catastrophic failure. She considered sharing more of it with Symod, but said nothing. That is for calling my people rabble, Symod, she thought.

  “Of course they did. Led by that weak-minded strumpet, how could they not?” He smoothed his beard with one hand, and said, “In truth, though, Lady Evolyn, you speak with some measure of insight. It is time to return to the baronies and prod the one with the most to lose to move on Thornhurst.”

  “The Baron Delondeur?”

  “The same.”

  “How can he move on Thornhurst when he cannot even control his own seat? Rumor has him imprisoned in the Dunes by his natural son. Half of Londray has declared for this bastard pretender, and riots in his name. By the time any delegation arrives there his men will long since have settled into winter quarters.”

  “Proper leverage, Marynth. Which is up to you to provide. You will depart the Archipelago within two days. You will take with you a small escort of priests and Islandmen warriors.”

  “What of the Dragonscales? If we are to confront the paladin, let us make an end of him with our largest and most dangerous weapon.”

  Symod tsked. “No need. And besides, it would be unwise, perhaps, to loose the berzerkers upon the lands of a Baron we wish to ally with.”

  Evolyn lowered her head to concede the point, and she heard Symod chuckle. “Besides, there is leverage to hand right here in Keersvast. You need only find it.”

  “What do you mean, Symod? Please, spare me the guesswork.”

  Symod swept through a cluster of once-priceless crystal as he walked to an opened window and leaned his hands against the stone sill. “It is a tradition for the Delondeur children to leave and engage in errantries, to write their names in blood and deeds. Whichever returns with the best roll of deeds attached to their name is named the heir.”

  “With all due respect, Choiron, you need not speak to me of the traditions of my own home barony,” Evolyn said, barely keeping the sneer out of her voice. “I knew all of Baron Lionel Delondeur’s children when I was youn
ger.”

  “Then you will have no trouble locating the one who is said to be in Keersvast, leading a crew of swords-at-hire,” Symod said, turning from the window to face her with a smirk. “Landen, I think.”

  Evolyn tried not to let her surprise show, but as Symod whirled on her she knew she had failed. “And what am I to do?”

  Symod exhaled heavily. “Tell me, Marynth, what your plan ought to be.”

  She considered the question, her face impassive. “Encourage Landen to return and seek the Baron’s rescue, submitting that as proof of fitness to rule as Lionel’s heir.”

  “That is a first step, yes.”

  “Provide assistance in the rescue and in putting Lionel back on his seat.”

  “Then,” Symod said, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards, sharp grey beard bristling. “Lionel must be driven to attack and destroy the paladin and his nascent heresy. The fact that Fortune’s emissary failed becomes two pieces of luck. First, that Fortune’s church is unable to fold this new faith into its own. Second, with their backing, you will carry a Declaration of Anathemata upon the Mother, Her so-called paladin, her other servants, clergy, and followers.”

  Evolyn stood straighter, curling her hands into loose fists to keep them from clutching at her belt. “Declaration of Anathemata?”

  “A rare thing, yes, but politically useful. Urdaran’s church will do nothing, of course. That is rather their trademark, after all. Yet two of the three Major Temples will suffice. With the Anathemata issued, and indebted as he will be for his rescue, Lionel Delondeur will have little choice but to marshal a force to stamp that village, and everyone residing in it, to dust.”

  “No matter what pressure is brought upon him, Lionel is unlikely to put men on the march in the depths of winter,” Evolyn said, thinking of the barony winters she had known in her life, the daily grinding misery of them. The entire Lamaliere family and most of the servants tried never to leave the great hall of her father’s keep, with its massive, never-cold hearths, once the sky turned and the wind grew its winter teeth. Men on watch upon the curtain wall froze in their steps if they went too far from a fire and were caught by a bad wind. The snow piled taller than her, taller than Symod, taller than one stacked upon the other in a bad year.

  “He will,” Symod said. “He will have no choice, for not only will you bring him his heir and the Declaration of Anathemata. You will be bringing him new allies to replace one he has lost.”

  “Are Braechsworn and Dragonscales going to do battle there or not, Symod?”

  “They will not be required.”

  “Then who?”

  “Do not burden yourself with an answer to that question.” Symod cut her off sharply, in a tone Evolyn well knew she shouldn’t challenge. “You have two days to find Landen Delondeur. Do not waste them.”

  “What if more of Lionel’s children rush to his aid? We would be throwing a Temple’s weight behind a question of succession. Wars have started over less.”

  “You needn’t worry about Lionel’s other children. I am given to understand that one has settled quite happily in the Concordat as a warband captain. And another will not be returning home under any circumstances.” Symod looked down at the shattered crystal and melted gold around him. “Fetch someone to clean this up as you go,” he murmured.

  I know a dismissal when I hear it, Evolyn thought. She bowed very lightly, barely inclining her head and not lowering her eyes, and began stepping carefully among the wreckage of their priceless artifact on her way to her work.

  When she passed near him, Symod leaned close to her, enough that she could feel the power emanating from his long, self-contained frame. “I suggest making sure of it, this time. I doubt he is likely to allow you to walk away yet again.”

  Evolyn took a moment to gather herself, trying to push away the image of a hammer resting upon her desk, of the horrible certainty in the eyes of the man holding it. “Braech, Sea Dragon, Father of Waves and Master of Accords,” she murmured in a quick prayer, “grant me the strength to see him dead this time.”

  Chapter 29

  A Legend is Crafted

  Allystaire and Idgen Marte sat before a fire in the inn, a flagon of the best wine Timmar could come up with at Allystaire’s elbow, listening to the sound of rain drumming on the roof. The place was fuller than usual at lunchtime, with few out in the rain to work. The village folk gave them space, engaged in their own conversations and stories and snatches of song, so that the two of them could more or less speak alone behind a buzz of noise.

  “It is not an altogether unpleasant sound, is it,” Allystaire mused.

  “What, rain?” Idgen Marte toyed her mug and shrugged. “I suppose, though in parts of the Concordat there are rainstorms that will last for a month or more.”

  “A month? I would go mad.”

  She shrugged again. “It’s what you know when you’re born there. Not the part where I’m from, mind, but we could get a good week long soaking now and again. Hate how cooped up it makes me feel. No going out-of-doors. I’m not the domestic type,” she said, twisting her lips in distaste before pouring a long swallow of wine down her throat. “Not one for staying put,” she added, almost an afterthought.

  “You are doing well enough with it here,” Allystaire pointed out.

  “D’ya recall that we thought we wouldn’t? We hung about waiting for a sign, then left for the road and were glad to be quit of the place. Don’t lie, you were just as happy to be moving again as I was. Should’ve taken Rede with us, though, kept an eye on him.”

  “I think we will see him again, for good or ill,” Allystaire replied absently, picking up his cup and stroking its rim with a thumb. “Anyway, you are right—I was glad to be moving again. Then Thornhurst started to feel like home.”

  “That’s a bit sentimental for a knight and warlord,” Idgen Marte chided.

  “Not how I meant it. I meant it has the same responsibilities, the same claims on my attention, the same preoccupying space. Home, as a lord of a place—at least, as one who takes it seriously—is a job of work as much as it is anything else.” Allystaire started to raise his cup, and caught Idgen Marte’s glare. “Not as much work as for the peat cutters or the farmers, I know. I would not claim otherwise. Still, home, when it was not a tent and a cot, meant a good deal of parchment moving across a desk and endless hearings and councils. Even being at home amongst an army was constant work, of a similar kind. Like being the headman of a large town, only one that is constantly on the move and cannot feed itself.”

  “And that,” Idgen Marte said, “is why I prefer staying on the move by myself. If no one knows where you are, no one can pin any responsibilities on you.”

  Allystaire chuckled, finished his wine, then reached for the flagon. The clatter of the door swinging open and then shut, rain and wind howling in, and boots dragged against the scrapers cut through the background noise of the common room, followed by the stumping, powerful steps that could only be Torvul’s.

  The dwarf stopped at the entrance and cast his eyes about, settling on Allystaire and Idgen Marte. Then he waved, and called to them in a voice that cut across all the noise.

  “C’mon, hero. I’ve got the process ready. I want ya t’see it.”

  Allystaire set down cup and flagon and stood, wincing just a bit. The advent of the rain the previous day had woken old aches in his left shoulder, and he felt them as he pushed against the table.

  “Hear that,” Torvul said, pointing a longer finger up at the roof, and, presumably, the rain driving against it. “That’s dwarfish work, that is.”

  “So long as it stops at some point,” Allystaire said. “We do not want to drown the, ah, cabbages.” He paused. “Can cabbages drown?”

  “Mother help us all if we ever need to turn your hands to farming. And nothin’ll drown. My work is precise. The rain will tail off over the night.
The ground is dry enough that it’ll soak it all up, and we should be more or less back to normal. Now,” the dwarf said, throwing open the door, “out into it. They gave me the use of a little house, on account of the fumes. Come now. It’ll be a quick walk, but a sodden one.”

  * * *

  Torvul checked and re-checked his table of instruments and the three glass vials of liquid, each stored in a separate rack. Around his bald head he’d tied a silk band that held dark lenses inside wooden frames, resting on his forehead. Allystaire had never seen them before, and couldn’t imagine their purpose. Idgen Marte stood close, watching, fascinated. Allystaire, dubious and dour, leaned against the cottage’s doorjamb with his arms crossed.

  Laid out on the table about which the alchemist paced was Allystaire’s armor: dark grey steel, pitted, scored, and dented. “I cannot see anything you have done to improve it, besides the gauntlet you showed me before. What exactly is the point to this, then? Armor is armor and there is no enchanting it, not with gifts such as yours.” The dwarf turned and scowled at Allystaire, and the man lifted his hands, palms out. “Your own words, Torvul. Not mine.”

  Torvul scowled even deeper. “Don’t quote my own words back at me, boy. And as for what good it’ll do…” He sighed. “Showmanship. A little majesty won’t hurt you any.”

  “I wouldn’t go using ‘majesty’ in his direction, dwarf,” Idgen Marte put in. “You know how twitchy he gets.”

  “I don’t mean with crowns n’plenipotentiary powers. I mean the looks of the thing. What do your stories of paladins all have in common?”

  “They are all probably untrue,” Allystaire offered.

  Torvul waved a hand dismissively. “Truth, untruth, all just shades when it comes to stories. Stories aren’t facts, and they aren’t meant to be. This,” he went on, pointing at the armor and the instruments laid out—a boar’s hair brush, several small hooks, a glass dropper—“gives you a certain quality that’ll make people take notice. People who otherwise wouldn’t. And,” Torvul smiled faintly, “it’ll put the fear of the Goddess into your enemies.”