The Morn of Stones

  The sun had risen on Vannarbar, risen on the Morn of Stones on a rare, cloudless Autumn day that cut the dew and mist off the ground in a handful of hours. Few had noted that the holy day was even approaching. The priest hadn’t said a word about it, but he’d had other things on his mind. Death and shadows. Curses and swords. Had been on the mind of most, truth be told, and that was a dew in the mind that the rising sun couldn’t burn off. But the sun had risen, and the Morn of Stones, Saint Briht’s holy day, was upon the waiting armies.

  In the old days, they would have gone to the hills, to the stones of their dead. Folk in the moors and the highlands still did. Those in the towns gathered at the churchyards and monasteries. Soldiers at battle, they went to the field, cart and stretcher in hand, to fetch their unburied dead.

  It was an unspoken truce. Larker had not made any advances since Einar Smashednose had taken the walls of Vannarbar, though there’d been no word that the quarry was even close to over. Yet on the field between the River Daun and the walls of Vannarbar, men had passed between the distance of an arrow's flight of their enemy, and none had been loosed. It was the Morn of Stones and even Larker’s lot knew that.

  By midday, there was a grave site outside the south gate. Rows of stone mounds marked the dead that had been laid to rest, and group by group, men took turns to hold brief rites, laying down chipped swords and cracked shields on the rock-pile graves. It was approaching early evening, and the wind had whipped up when it came time to hold the rites for Karlin the Halfgiant.

  There was a small party in attendance, mostly the more senior men. Borke stood at the grave’s foot, the man absently biting the nail of his thumb down to its roots. Then Hessen, a little distance off, sat on a tree stump, watching the Baidon men and their customs. Silker stood arms neatly folded, eyes focused on the stone, his mind in other places and other numbers. Young Runher, the lad who had followed Karlin and Fenris out of the creek bed that first day with the arcanist, was almost teary, trying hard to keep a straight face. Further away, not part of the proceedings, but watching on, Einar Smashednose. At the grave’s head, Fenris Whiteeyes.

  “We should begin,” Borke said.

  “Aye,” Fenris said, then turned to Hessen. “Get off your arse.”

  The Kostian opened his mouth, thought better and closed it, then nodded and stood. They shuffled in a little closer around the grave.

  “We meet to honour our dead,” Borke started. The man wasn’t much of a priest, but he’d have better luck at it than anyone else. “Who will say his name when he cannot?”

  “I shall.” The watchers recited.

  “What name?” Borke asked.

  After a pause, Fenris went first. “Karlin Onearmed.”

  “Karlin the Warrior,” Silker said.

  “Karlin Halfgiant,” said Hessen.

  Then the lad, Runher, “Karlin the Fearless.”

  Finally, Borke finished it. “Karlin the Fallen.”

  There was a moment of silence in which only the wind could be heard rushing through the trees. The watchers looked down at the stone pile, down at their boots, then at Borke. When it started to feel awkward, the would-be priest carried on.

  Borke reached down to his side, then cursed when he realised there was nothing but meadow grass beneath his fingers. “Fenris, did you bring his…”

  “Yes,” Fenris cut him off. “I’ve got them.”

  Fenris Whiteeyes handed Borke a wrapped bundle, and the man undid it, revealing half a shattered shield, an axe and the warrior’s mace.

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  Borke cleared his throat. “These, your tools, we place on your grave so that those who come here after may know your name.” He placed the shield, the back of which had Karlin’s name carved into the wood, at the head of the grave, and knocked it in place with a stone. Then Borke placed the mace across where Karlin’s chest would be, and then was about to put the axe down, when Hessen spoke up.

  “Don’t,” Hessen said.

  Borke frowned.

  “We could use another axe,” the Kostian said. “No one is going to want to take an axe from a dead man’s grave.”

  Ruhner gasped, and Borke, usually cool-tempered, went red. “Shut your fucking mouth, you…”

  “Steady,” Fenris barked. He understood the anger, would have been feeling it himself if he wasn’t so numb, the wind flowing through him like he wasn’t there. He sighed. “Hessen’s right. Just leave his mace on the grave. It’s so bloody heavy, no one can use it anyway. The mace and shield will be enough.”

  Borke cooled off a bit, nodded and left the mace by itself. “Well,” he said. “It’s traditional that the rite ends with a song. Would anyone offer their voice? Can anyone?”

  Another silence as Borke looked at Fenris. Whiteeyes raised an eye, shook his head and looked at Hessen. Hessen then passed the questioning look onto Silker.

  “You’ll need more drink in me to do that,” Silker said, dryly.

  They chuckled, then turned their heads as someone raised their hand. Young Ruhner, had one freckled arm above his head.

  “I used to sing,” he said. “I used to sing for my baby brother when I was younger.”

  “Go on then,” Borke said. “Sing for the dead.”

  Ruhner opened his mouth, and a surprisingly smooth tenor flowed out. It was a pure and wonderful thing. The song filled the clearing and the rock pile graves as the wind eased on the sunny Morn of Stones.

  Oh tanner’s son, the winter winds are blowing.

  Oh tanner’s son, the brook has ceased its flowing.

  Oh tanner’s son, the ground is hard and frozen.

  What shall we eat, Oh tanner’s son?

  Spare a scrap of leather,

  Lend a bite of hide.

  For the fowls have took to feather,

  The crops have withered and died.

  In the night, wolves maraud,

  For our dear lord hath gone abroad,

  A battle for land and gold.

  What shall we eat, oh tanner’s son?

  The winter’s come and the stores are done.

  What shall we eat, oh tanner’s son?

  When the lad had finished his song, he looked down at his feet. It made Fenris chuckle a bit on the inside, that. Difficult to look like a hard warrior when everyone knows you’re a choir boy at heart. But it had been a good song.

  Hessen broke the silence that followed the song. “Fine singing, but…”the man said a curse, something in Kostian. “Those are some sad lyrics and no doubt about it. You, men of Baidon are a miserable lot.”

  Silker shrugged. “Usually, I’d blame it on the weather, but today’s not too bad.”

  “Aye,” Borke said. “That’s it. The rites are complete, or something close to them anyway.”

  With the rites done, each man broke off, heading for the gate. Even on the Morn of Stones, it was a strange thing to be lingering in a graveyard for too long. Folk worried that the Balance there could rub off on you, and perhaps it did, but Fenris Whiteeyes could never figure out if that was a bad thing for a warrior. He was the last to leave the side of Karlin’s grave. It was the biggest in the clearing, a nearly seven-foot-long pile of stones. Karlin the Halfgiant. Karlin Onearmed.

  “Wish me luck, big man,” he said. And then, “Thanks for that rat in Learona.”

  There was a tear in the mercenary’s pale white eye, caused by an irritating piece of dust, no doubt. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Then Fenris started out of the clearing, leaving the stone piles to themselves.

  Fenris passed by Einar Smashednose, stopping in his tracks. Whiteeyes looked sideways at the old man. There was something deep in him, cutting through the numbness that had taken him since he’d survived the night in Vannarbar, since Karlin hadn’t. It bubbled in his gut, clenched his jaw tight.

  “Got a plan for getting us through all this?” Whiteeyes said.

  Smashednose didn’t answer. The old man was mumbling something under his breath, jowls moving up and down with each breath. In the bare sunlight, the warrior looked older than Fenris had ever seen him, hair frazzled like a madman, eye sockets deep and dark.

  “Einar,” Fenris said. “You hear…”

  The old warrior raised his hand. “Eighty-seven. Eighty-seven.” He snorted. “Silker’s count was off.” Smashednose licked his lips, his hands clasped down by his belly, rubbing callus on callus. “Eighty-seven. Or maybe my count was off.”

  Einar Smashednose walked away from Fenris, into the small meadowed clearing that was now a burial ground.

  “Smashednose!” Fenris called after him.

  “I heard you, Fenris Whiteeyes,” Smashednose barked. He stared daggers at the archer, but then, like a fallen leaf, his attention drifted back to the stone mounds. “Eighty-seven,” he whispered. The old man began walking, counting graves as he passed them. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven…”

  Fenris left Einar Smashednose counting graves. Everyone had a different way of observing the Morn of Stones, some drank, gambled, prayed in hills or chapels, laid dry flowers on graves, Einar Smashednose counted them. If that was what the old warrior wanted to do, then so be it, but they would have questions for the old man come commanders council. He’d better have answers.