pouring through to cover the land…
‘Calm yourself, Adviser-’ he began.
‘Calm myself?’ the man fairly choked. ‘The end is coming. I go to prepare for it. I suggest you do as well.’ And he lurched away.
The Chosen guards looked to Hiam for orders to pursue him, but he shook his head.
‘I don’t like this mention of the west,’ Stimins breathed, his voice low. ‘I’d have preferred it if he’d claimed it was here — overtopping. But not out there, to the west. Not an undermining… Send a message,’ he suggested. ‘Status report.’
Hiam gave a thoughtful nod. ‘Yes. There’s been a tremor, after all.’ His nod gathered conviction. ‘Yes. I’ll be up top. See to the repairs.’
Stimins snorted. ‘Wouldn’t be anywhere else, would I?’
Esslemont, Ian Cameron
Stonewielder
CHAPTER XII
We cannot learn without pain.
The first sign Stall had of trouble was members of the work gang standing up from their hammering to stare southwards. Stall pushed himself from the rock he’d been leaning against and, taking up his spear, drew his cloak tighter about himself. Evessa straightened as well, sent him a questioning look. He motioned to the rock field far below, where a lone figure climbed the rugged slope that sprawled down from the rear of the Stormwall. Taking up her spear, Evessa waved to Stall and the two took their time picking their way down to the man.
Closer, Stall saw him to be a bull of a fellow, apparently unarmed, full helm under an arm. Against the cold he wore a plain cloak and thick robes in layers over his armour. He and Evessa spread out to stand ahead of the fellow, to either side.
Stall planted his spear, called, ‘Who are you? Name yourself!’
The man did not answer immediately. He peered up past them to the slope where the rear of this section of the curved curtain wall soared like a fortress. The gang peered down from among the rocks where they worked on the buttressing ordered by Master Engineer Stimins.
The stranger nodded to himself, took a deep breath, and drew on his helm. ‘I suggest you go now,’ he told them in accented Korelri.
Stall lowered his spear. ‘You’ll have to come with us for questioning…’
Kneeling, the man pressed a gauntleted hand to the bare stony ground. Stall and Evessa shared a look — was the fellow touched? Stall began: ‘Don’t give us any…’
The ground shook. Rocks clattered, falling. Grating and roaring, the larger boulders shifted. Evessa cried out and had to jump when the huge rocks she stood upon ground together. The reverberation fanned out around them into the distance, from where the echoes of scraping and shifting returned ever more faintly. The workers cried out, scattering, clambering among the rocks.
Stall returned his attention to the stranger to see that he now carried a sword: a great two-handed length of dull grey. The man’s eyes glared a bright pale blue from the darkness of his helm. ‘Go now!’ he commanded. ‘Warn everyone to flee!’
Stall looked to Evessa, cocked a brow. The Jourilan woman inclined her head; Stall nodded. The two backed away. The man was clearing stones from the ground before him. Stall and Evessa picked up their pace, waving away the remaining workers watching them, uncertain.
‘Run, you damned fools!’ Stall yelled.
*
So which would it be? Greymane wondered while he stood waiting to give everyone time to put more room between he and they. The greatest mass-murderer of the region? Or a semi-mythical deliverer?
Both, I imagine. It could not be avoided. Many would die. And rightly or wrongly he would be blamed. Yet was he not just one link in an unbroken chain of causality stretching back who knew how far? Albeit the final one.
Devaleth’s argument returned to haunt him — not that he didn’t know the same doubts: what guarantee did he have that the Riders would not overrun all the lands? Objectively, that much water didn’t exist in the world. Subjectively, every observation, action, and account supported his conclusion.
They would strike for the Lady.
Just as he should have when he had his chance. Regrets choked him now. He hoped Kyle would not be too angry with him — he’d had to keep everyone at arm’s length. The fool probably would have tried to follow him!
And were the troops free of the coast? Certainly they should be by now — especially with Devaleth forewarned. And she should reach Banith as well, through Ruse. Yet what of every other coastal settlement of the region? Were they not all threatened? Yes, many would die. But at least after that it would be over. It would not go on eternally, year after year, as it had for centuries.
Or so he told himself.
Enough! Enough self-flagellation. It was too late then; it is even later now. What he should have done long ago awaited him still. Time to act.
A short thrust first, I think. To warn everyone what is to come.
He knelt, raised the stone sword, point down. Burn, accept this offering and answer. Bless my intent. Right this ancient wrong. Heal this wound upon the world.
He slammed the blade down into the earth.
At first nothing happened. The blade slid easily through the exposed stone. A kind of silence grew around him. Then came a vibration, the ground uneasy, shuddering. Up the slope boulders slid, subsiding. Rocks tumbled to either side. Far above, where the wall met the overcast sky with its embrasures, lift-houses, and quarters, clouds of birds erupted from their perches to take flight in dark swaths. Enormous hanging accumulations of ice, some longer than a man, snapped away, plunging down the rear to smash to the rocks below. Tiny figures raced madly back and forth.
Run while you can. Greymane yanked the blade free. Setting his left foot back firmly, he raised the sword straight up overhead to its fullest extension. Tensing his body, he snapped the blade down as if to gouge a slice from the earth. The rough stone blade struck the granite in an eruption of force that shuddered straight up to his grip. A crack split the rounded worn bedrock, shooting off ahead to disappear beneath the jumbled scree slope. Kneeling, he kept his death’s grip on the length of carved stone. Water appeared from among the jumbled rocks. It shot down over his knees in a frigid sheen.
Oh shit. I’m under the wall.
Well, he chided himself, you didn’t really think you’d survive this, did you?
A bell-like booming resounded from the towering wall. Two lift-houses built up over the rear fell away in a litter of fractured stone to tumble like doll’s houses down the curved face and explode in shards of wood and stone at the base. Cut blocks of the curtain wall, each perhaps as large as a man, shifted, dirt and moss cascading down. Water shot from the lowest in a jetting spray, darkening the rocks of the slope.
Greymane yanked the blade free. Enough? Well, best make sure of it.
He raised the sword again. One more. Then run like a madman.
This time he swept the blade down as if he were sinking it into water. The naked time-gnawed bedrock parted in a gap that took even his grip. The very ground around him seemed to sink then flex upwards like a struck drum. Boulders the size of houses heaved aside to crash and tumble like catapult stones. A grinding screech as of a death-shriek sounded from the distance where the rearing curtain wall wavered as if struck by a giant’s battering ram. Then it bulged outward at its base, stones shifting, and water burst forth in a gushing, heaving rush.
