Ширли Мерфи - The Shattered Stone [calibre]

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 and 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.