Shattered Stone Read online

  Before she could flee again, a group of soldiers wheeled their horses into the street and began to jerk the swords from the doors and whack at the shutters with them, the horses trampling the little bowls of grain that had been set out for the Horses of Eresu. She watched as the shutters were wrenched off the windows and flung down, and pieces of furniture, clothing and pans and tools, were pulled out and trampled. She saw the weaver’s loom smashed, into sticks. She could smell honeyrot where a keg had been broken open, and she heard laughter as the soldiers sucked up the liquor. She heard a soft noise behind her, turned to run, and a hand was clamped over her chest and an arm encircled her. She was held tight. Then her captor lunged and fell, pulling her down beside him.

  She was lying in wetness, in blood.

  It was a Kubalese soldier. He stared up at her unseeing. Her only instinct was to crawl away from him. She pulled his tunic back and went sick at the sight of the wound then she freed herself and rose, to slip through the open doorway. The room smelled of wax. She tripped over a chair then at last found the back entry, and pushed it open to slip out into the narrow alley then along it in the shadows. She could hear women screaming again, and a sharp crack. She moved quietly toward the plum grove.

  She had gone several blocks, was nearly at the edge of the housegardens when she came around the last row of houses and up against a Kubalese soldier standing silent in the shadows. She had no chance to escape. She struggled and he hit her hard so she saw flashing lights and blackness. He pulled her across the square between milling horses and men, past screaming women and a group of Burgdeeth men tied together—she sought for Shanner but could not see him. She fought and kicked and the soldier hit her again. She could taste blood. She was shoved into a group of women, cried out blindly for Mama, then was prodded with a sword as they were herded, stumbling, toward the Set.

  At the Temple they were forced at sword point to spit on it, then were prodded through the gate of the Set, toward the prison.

  *

  Through the prison bars, Zephy could see the moonlit dome of the Temple. She was in the cell where Thorn had been kept. Women were huddled against each other, staring blankly. Some were bleeding, and a few had skirts blackened from fire as if they had tried to run through the flaming field. The smell of burned cloth mixed with the smell of filth. A woman began to weep, and someone began to whisper the Prayers of Contrition. They could still hear screams from the square.

  Then Zephy saw, over the top of the Temple, the angry red sweep of fire on the mountain and knew without question that the Kubalese were burning Dunoon.

  FOURTEEN

  Dunoon was burning. The fire leaped high against the night as the Kubalese soldiers spurred their horses in a circle around the flaming huts.

  While the main bulk of the Kubalese army had swept through Burgdeeth herding the populace like chickens, a small, select cadre had cut out fast up the mountain to enter sleeping Dunoon and, from ambush, lay fire to the thatched rooftops and pen the huts in a cordon to prevent escape. They narrowed and closed this circle until the Kubalese soldiers rode bridle to crupper, cheering the leaping flames.

  But they saw no man run from the burning huts, heard no scream. When at last the flames died, the Kubalese soldiers dismounted, their weapons ready, to stamp into the huts to kill those left living or drag them out for their sport, to tear apart the furnishings and to loot, if there was anything worth the taking.

  But there was no man, no child or woman there; the huts were empty, their contents smoldering untended.

  Had Dunoon’s goatherds, at the first sound of hoofbeats in the dark, run away in fear? Or were the men of Dunoon hidden among the black peaks, laughing down even now at the Kubalese? Seething with fury, the Kubalese band spread out and up to search in the dark among the crags and shadows.

  But on that rough terrain in the darkness, the Kubalese horses could only stumble and grow confused; they were struck from unlikely places, they leaped away in terror at strange sounds and thrusts, unseating their riders who, heavy in their war leathers, lashed out clumsily at nothing. The Kubalese soldiers fell and could find nothing but boulders with their flailing swords.

  And the men of Dunoon advanced, quick and sure in the darkness, knowing their own land, attacking without sound, one here In the shelter of an outcropping, one to slip a Kubalese from his mount as silently as a breath. Thorn slaughtered three, and another; a quick knife to the loins, to the heart, a fallen body. The huts no longer flamed, were smoldering now, and the moons were cloud-covered.

  When Thorn paused in the fighting to pull his sword free of a Kubalese body, he saw, down the mountain, that the flames had died in Burgdeeth’s field. If Burgdeeth had been taken this night, were the Children of Ynell safely away? He saw Zephy’s face in a quick, painful flash, then he plunged deeper into battle.

  He dodged a Kubalese soldier and drove his sword into the lunging man just as the Kubalese horn of victory bellowed. Were the Kubalese mad, calling victory? Shouts rang across the night and made him swing around to stare. Then a Kubalese voice barked coldly, “Your leader is taken, men of Dunoon. We have Oak Dar. Lay down your arms or he dies.”

  But it was a trick! How could the Kubalese have Oak Dar? How could they believe such a ruse would fool Dunoon?

  He slipped forward past men arrested in battle, past Dunoon swords touching the Kubalese but waiting in their readiness to plunge. He moved toward the source of the shout and paused as a torch was lit in the clearing, then another. He could see the captive now, the man that two Kubalese soldiers held slumped motionless between them. He clenched his fists and stared at the sword lifted above his father’s throat.

  He strode into the clearing.

  Facing the Kubalese captain, he thought too late that if Oak Dar was dead, this gesture was stupid beyond measure, to have made himself vulnerable so. He stepped forward and put his hand on his father’s cheek. The Kubalese did not try to stop him. He felt along his father’s neck for a pulse. Yes, Oak Dar lived. He moved to take his father’s weight upon his shoulder, but the Kubalese leaders blocked this, staring down at him with merciless eyes.

  “What do you want, Kubalese, in return for my father’s life?”

  A slow smile spread across the evil face. “Son of Oak Dar, is it? So be it then. Now you rule Dunoon, lad. What say you to that?” The voice was deceptively soft. “Do you bring your people willingly to slave? Or does your father die this night?”

  “No one brings my people, Kubal. They choose in those matters for themselves. And what do you mean, to slave?” Though he knew well enough what was meant.

  “You will live here freely, son of Oak Dar. You and your people. Only Oak Dar will be held under guard. You will herd your meat goats for us and will slaughter them at our bidding to feed our camp at Burgdeeth. If you do not obey us, Oak Dar dies.”

  Thorn stared at him and turned away. The plan his father had laid so well, had carried out with such quick skill, had come to nothing. They were defeated. And his father seemed injured in a way that terrified Thorn, so limp he was, near lifeless.

  He bowed his head, looked up once more at the Kubalese, then gestured toward his burned hut. “I will accept your terms, Kubal. But only with my terms laid on. My father will have the care he needs, all that we can give him. We will come and go to his hut freely, as we choose. Otherwise—you are bidden to kill him at once.” His voice caught, infuriating him. “Our men still wait in the shadows. They will be more than glad to take up the battle once more. And glad to see you die.”

  No emotion showed on the Kubalese face. The man stared at him for so long that Thorn thought he would surely kill Oak Dar. But then he nodded woodenly. Thorn stepped forward, motioned to another herder, and together they lifted Oak Dar and began to carry him toward his burned hut.

  *

  “No! Leave me alone. Let me go!” Zephy tried to twist away from the soldier who held her. His grip was beyond her strength. Enraged, helpless, she flung herself on him a
nd buried her teeth in his arm.

  He screamed; she tasted blood, he struck her across the face so she reeled backward sick with pain, nearly fainting.

  When she righted herself the other girls were staring at her coldly. Not one of them had resisted being herded out of the cell. The older women, still behind bars, stared too, without expression. They had been huddled that way all night, silent and expressionless, as if the shock of the attack and of the capture of Burgdeeth bad left them dumb. Or was it only that used by men all their lives, they found this defeat not so different?

  Mama looked at Zephy as if willing her not to fight She had been brought into the cell very late, and now was summoned out again, to cook for the Kubalese troops. The girls were to wait table, the soldiers said, snickering. When the guard reached for Zephy again she lunged at him, and when he turned to strike her she kneed him in the crotch. He let her go, bending over double. She dodged by him but was grabbed by another, and his blow on her ear made her head ring. She crouched at his feet, blackness engulfing her.

  When she could again make sense of her surroundings, she thought she heard Tra. Hoppa speaking sharply beside her. “Let her be. If you take her for your sport, you’ll answer to Kearb-Mattus, soldier. She’s one of his, can’t you see that!”

  Zephy shook her head, trying to understand. The soldier stood over her, staring at Tra. Hoppa. “One of his, old woman? What are you trying to say?”

  “Don’t act stupid, soldier. This one is a Child of Ynell. Take her to Kearb-Mattus if you doubt me. Take her to him, or you’ll know what Kearb-Mattus’s anger can do to a common soldier—if you haven’t learned that before now.”

  Zephy could only stare at her.

  “You’ll come too, old woman. And if you lie . . .” the soldier jerked Tra. Hoppa into the line of girls and prodded Zephy with his boot.

  She rose, still staring at Tra. Hoppa. But Tra. Hoppa would not look at her, the slight old woman stared straight ahead, ignoring Zephy. How could Tra. Hoppa do this? Surely she knew that Kearb-Mattus promised no good for a Child of Ynell. Though maybe she didn’t know that he would surely kill Zephy; Zephy had told the old woman nothing, had had no chance. There was nothing for her to do now but follow the Kubalese’s orders. What would happen at the Inn? If she was not killed, she knew she and the other girls would be used badly. She looked and looked at Tra. Hoppa, but the teacher would not look back. They were herded into a tight line and prodded along beside the wall of the Set, toward the gate.

  This was the second time they had left the cell. Five days ago, the morning after the attack, they had been led out to bury Burgdeeth’s dead. The older women had gone, too, everyone in the cell. Only not all of them had come back: the prettiest girls had been taken up to the Inn. There had been screams in the night and drunken laughter.

  But that was after they had dug the pitiful graves in the blackened whitebarley field. They had been joined by Burgdeeth’s surviving men, who came marching chained together like animals. All of them had been given spades. They had dug graves for all Burgdeeth’s dead, the soldiers, the women, and children. Shallow graves among the burned stubble where the bodies must lie forever prone in the bare earth.

  Shanner’s grave, cold and lonely.

  She had seen him lying dead, a crusted wound across his chest so she had turned away sick. Mama had not seen. And Zephy had not told her. Ill with it, she could not bear to think long of Shanner’s death; yet when her thoughts turned from it, they could only dwell again on the burning of Dunoon, and despair would grip her harder, a cold immobilizing fear.

  It was growing dark as the soldiers herded them along the wall. The Kubalese horses, tied in a row, munched idly at their fodder, great dark shapes shifting and blowing as the group of prisoners passed. Ahead of Zephy, two girls turned as they went through the gate and stared boldly at the Kubalese guards.

  The cobbled path was strewn with manure and straw, not spotless as the Landmaster had always demanded. Ahead in the square, the statue loomed bold against the darkening sky. Were the three Children still in the tunnel beneath it? But there was no food or water. Had they come out, hungry and thirsty, and been captured? Why hadn’t she thought, before Fire Scourge, to take provisions there, in case they would be needed? Two drunken Kubalese soldiers lounged against the statue just beside the secret door, their honeyrot jug propped on top the hedge.

  Why did Tra. Hoppa call me a Child of Ynell? She doesn’t know that I am. And why would she say it anyway? Does she think, if they felt I had the gift, I would be used less harshly than the other girls? Tra. Hoppa knew nothing about what Zephy and Meatha had planned or about their visit to Anchorstar. Zephy had wanted to tell her, in the cell, but even a whisper had seemed like a shout in that crowded place.

  The nudge on her arm was so soft; she turned, and Tra. Hoppa gave her a look of silence, pressing close. “Climb the statue, hide there between the wings. Go when I distract them. Wait until the small hours, then get away. Get away from Burgdeeth.”

  Zephy gasped, started to speak . . .

  “Shhh—watch me. Go when the soldiers run.”

  Tra. Hoppa moved away from her, slipping between the girls. Then suddenly she broke free of the line and ran, her skirts and tunic flapping. The rear guard came running past, pushing Zephy out of the way. A big girl, taking Tra. Hoppa’s example, broke out in the other direction and others followed. There was shouting, someone screamed. Zephy thought she was frozen to the spot, looked around blindly. Then she ran, terrified.

  She reached the statue and pushed between the bronze bodies. Were the two Kubalese still on the other side? She couldn’t see, hadn’t time to look; she clutched for the Luff’Eresi’s raised foreleg and scrambled to pull herself up. Her hands slipped on the smooth bronze; she gripped the edge of the Luff’Eresi’s wing and struggled, pulled, until at last she scrambled up between the god’s rising wings, sick with fear. His back was still warm from the heat of the day; she was hidden as if in a nest of bronze where his wings and human torso rose up. She could not see below her, could see only the wings rising like curved walls on either side of her.

  Finally when no one clutched her ankle, when no face appeared, she relaxed and pulled herself forward on her belly until she could peer down between the Luff’Eresi’s wing and his waist.

  The two Kubalese soldiers were gone from beside the hedge. There was still angry shouting from several directions; but she was well concealed, and the warmth of the statue felt good. Where the Luff’Eresi’s back changed from horse to man, the muscles were smooth and taut. His wings rose from this joining place, their feathers, as long as her forearm, overlapping in intricate patterns. And the wings themselves soared as if they felt the wind, the windblown clouds above seemed to stand still and the wings to move beneath them. Waytheer shone once between blowing clouds thin as gauze,, then was gone. She wished she had her cloak. She had sat on it in the cell, and left it there sodden with muck from the stone floor.

  The soldiers’ voices faded, at last were gone. The line of girls who had not escaped, and Mama, had already reached the Inn. Had Tra. Hoppa been captured? If she was free, would she go to the tunnel? Zephy looked at the Horse of Eresu next to her, his dark shape lifting in the moonlight, then left her perch to climb onto his back, nearer to the tunnel entrance. His horse’s head rose above her, his mane flung out. She could see only one light near the square, in the Deacons’ house across the way. What had happened to the Deacons? And to the Landmaster? The Landmaster’s Set had been plundered. From her prison Zephy had watched as silver and carved furniture and Zandourian rugs had been thrown carelessly onto the cobbles, then loaded in bundles onto the backs of Burgdeeth’s own horses, to be carried to Kubal. Jewels had been tossed from soldier to soldier, glinting in the sun then stuffed into saddlebags. And the serving girls had been used cruelly by the Kubalese. Quiet girls who had spent most of their lives in the Set, living quite apart from Burgdeeth. Once, they had seemed only shadows to Zephy if she thought
of them at all. Now she remembered them with pity.

  When she had seen Elij grooming the Kubalese horses, she had felt only surprise that he was not locked in a cell or dead. And she had wished him dead instead of Shanner.

  There was a dull pulsing of laughter from the Inn, and then shouts. She could slip down the side of the statue now, and go into the tunnel. But she knew she must not. She must wait until all the soldiers slept, then make her way to the Inn. For she could not leave Mama.

  FIFTEEN

  She slid down the side of the statue in shadow, and stared around her at the unsheltering, moonlit square. There was a long, unprotected distance before she could slip into darkness beside Burgdeeth’s buildings. It would be so easy to slide open the door to the tunnel now and hide herself there. She felt as if eyes watched from everywhere. She pulled off her shoes and raced headlong to the first deep shadows, by the Weaver’s. She crouched by the broken loom, her heart pounding.

  She began to move carefully along the wall among the tangled, broken debris from Burgdeeth’s homes. At the edge of the moonlight, a carved doll lay forlorn atop a broken washtub. Food was scattered, good mawzee spilled and honeyrot sticky where casks had been smashed open. In front of the Forgemaster’s, smith’s tools lay covered with blood so she stood, shocked, for a long moment. She felt sick for Shanner, sick with his death, and sick that the tools he had loved were here like this. There was a child’s tunic hung from the corner of a building and some hides had been thrown into the street.

  The Kubalese soldiers must have been very drunk, indeed, to destroy so wantonly. Even they would need tools, need food and equipment.