Stone Rising (2 page)

“And I knew that you wouldn’t be able to resist showing your face, my angel.”

She smiled at the words and he longed to reach out and touch her. But he knew it was to no avail; she wasn’t really here, only her spirit. Soon, though, soon. How long had it been? Six months? So long to be apart, but they had been warned. Their Lord had told them that duty to mankind would come first.

The image of Gwenna nodded over to the four frozen Knights Templar.

“How’re the new recruits?”

Marlyn looked over his shoulder to follow her gaze.

“Seem to be getting younger every year. They appear to have good heads on their shoulders though.”

Gwenna laughed, ringlets of red bouncing in time to her mirth.

“I remember when you looked the youngest out of us all, my love. Yet look at you now, all grown up, with a dragon as your personal chariot.” She smiled, quiet for a moment. “I missed you.”

He nodded, a wry grin on his face.

“I know.”

She narrowed her eyes in mock anger, before vanishing, the bridge erupting once more into light and noise and motion.

“-kind. They must have meant Lord Stone himself.”

The other three Knights nodded in agreement with Teanna’s words, shivering in anticipation of perhaps meeting the Lord himself, but their train of thought was interrupted by the metallic, bellowing call of Admiral Marlyn as he issued orders.

“Retract secondary and tertiary wing pairs, lock onto psi-buoys and prepare for atmospheric entry. We head for New Merethia.” He turned to make his way back to his quarters at the rear of the bridge, before looking back over his shoulder to his second-in-command. “And try not to scare the locals
too
much…”

***

New Merethia, capital city of Eurydes. The folk here miners and farmers, for the most part; the world given over to supplying the war effort. This world, here, now, in this far flung arm of the Milky Way, had the misfortune to be right on the brunt of conflict, a border world, right on the edge.

             
Invasion Point.

             
As such, the population had become accustomed to the sight of the mounting martial might of the Navy. Battlecruisers, Frigates, Carriers; vessels miles long, weighing a million tons apiece, hanging, motionless, in geosynchronous orbit above them, visible both during the bright, blue days and the clear, black nights. Firepower that could crack the planet asunder like an egg, poised above them like Damocles’ blade. But the vessels had been gathering now for months and even the meekest of the populace had become inured to their presence.

             
But this. This was different. This was no cruiser, no transport vessel that descended low and fast to their city. Sleek, predatory. Reptilian. The stone-grey leviathan flew in silence over the land, the shadow swamping towns in its darkness, then plunging them back into sunlight just as fast. Wings, half a mile long. A tail, arrow straight. A head, with befanged jaws and eyes that glowed an otherworldly hue.

             
A Dragonship of legend had come to roost. And Dragonships were called upon for one purpose and one purpose alone.

             
It was the graffiti that appeared that very day in spray painted letters on the wall of the Market Place that conveyed it, the red painted words of the unknown artist reflecting perfectly the mood of the people. The mood of the times.

             
It read: SHIT HAS JUST GOT REAL

Shit had indeed got real. Shit that had begun, as some would have you believe, over two hundred years before.

Chapter One:

Thunder in the mountains. Deep, rumbling. But no, not that, not thunder.

Not anymore. 

The mountains were long gone, never to be seen again. But the forests; the forests remained. And as long as there were forests, then they could never be defeated. They would always survive, one way or another. They would run. They would hide. And they would do what good they could for the people of this land in what time they had left, knowing that one day, maybe soon, they would be found. And they would be brought back home.

             
It had been promised.

             
That noise again. Luis felt it this time, deep in his chest, growing stronger, steadier. More insistent. It struck him with a thrill of anticipation.

             
Horses, not thunder; the enemy were close.

             
He turned, fled into the trees, disappearing with a skill almost innate until no trace of him remained, save the faintest of twitches as flattened grass strove to right itself and seek once more the weak summer  sun.

***

              “How close?”

             
“A mile out, maybe two.”

“How many?”

“I’m… I’m not sure.”

A sigh of exasperation and Luis flinched, fully expecting an angry outburst from his questioner, but none was forthcoming. The figure before him merely shook his head in disappointment, before continuing.

“This isn’t our homeland, Luis. But the principles by which we fight still stand. Where there are trees, there is advantage. Climb. Watch. Report back. We live and die by knowing more than our foe and anticipating his moves. Even with the locals to aid us, we number few. If we’re ambushed, we’re doomed.”

The man’s tone was quiet, measured, not accusing, yet Luis still looked down, ashamed.

“Of course, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be careful.”

Another nod and Luis turned, departing the woven hut by the canvas door, leaving the two figures inside to converse by themselves.

“You’re too soft on your men, outlander. I hope you know that.”

Iain smiled at the good natured criticism, his still-youthful face now becoming creased with the lines of fight and flight. The months had been hard. But the Foresters were still unbroken. And if he had anything to do with it, would remain that way.

“I know, John. But these men and women have been through a lot. It’s not my place to add to their burden. As long as they learn from their mistakes, that’s enough for me.” His eyes shimmered as he thought back to events that seemed almost a lifetime ago now. “This band is built on trust. It’s a family. The only family we have. You understand that…”

John nodded, eyes solemn within his lined, bearded face. He did, more than Iain could know. He could feel the weight of years resting heavily on even his burly frame. The months of fighting, of running, of eking out an existence from the darkness of the Forest. Hunted, hounded, at all turns, by the servants of a King who should not even be in power. He thought back, so long ago, to that dark time, driven from their homes, on the march, fleeing the wrath of the tax-collectors who had come a-knocking, with their troop of hired soldiers, on the hunt for monies they would never find.

Driven. Like geese, like sheep. Herded away from the towns and villages and into the wilderness. No rest, no mercy. Every straggler taken off to be hanged in that god-forsaken keep. Only snatched moments to grab a mouthful to eat or a minute of fitful slumber before moving on again, willing leaden limbs into action.

How John had felt like giving up. How they’d all felt like giving up. And then finally they’d found themselves, surrounded, cut off; a band of warriors, a dark wall between them and the safety of the forest. Death had closed in. But then salvation. A flash of bright light. The scorching taste of metal on the tongue. And cries had split the air. Arrows darkening the sky. Their pursuers routed beneath the fury of a new force.

The outlanders. Those who had named themselves so aptly for their new surroundings.

The Foresters.

So yes, when Iain spoke, John knew what he meant. He knew of what it was to find new family in the midst of strife. To find bonds of friendship in the heat of bloodshed.

He knew of hope.

Though his hope was different from that of the outlanders. They had faith that their lord would be coming to find them, to bring them back to his fold. Was this lord the self-same deity of which the preacher and his men sang every Sunday morning? Perhaps, though he had seen the
Foresters exchanging wry grins at some of the sermons, suitably unimpressed by tales of water-walking and resurrection. They’d seen better, the looks had said.

No, John had no such grand visions. His ambitions were lower. More worldly. A woman. A home that wasn’t this wretched forest. The chance to raise a family in peace. To maybe rebuild his forge, continue his work as a smith.

To live, for once, as a man. Not a beast.

He started, Iain’s voice jarring him from his dream of times past and yet to come.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, I think we’d best gather the men.”

John nodded, reaching for his sturdy, wooden quarterstaff.

“Aye. And you’d best inform your leader. Speaking of which, where is he?”

A shake of the head and Iain sighed.

“Where is he always? Out there, somewhere. Finding trouble. And killing it, no doubt.”

***

No sound betrayed his movement. No shape, no shine, no silhouette. He was a hunter.

And everything was his prey.

Fingers, strong and sinewy, curled about the wooden haft of his axe, slung low, ready. Footsteps that should have rustled in the undergrowth, muffled by years of experience. Eyes, unassuming, every-day, yet glistening with a burden of power, bored through the foliage seeking their target.

There; four men, leather clad and wielding crossbows. A vanguard to the larger force that even now approached the outskirts of the forest, making their way as stealthily as they could through the forest trails. Stealthily, yet each clumsy footstep telegraphed a hundred yards in every direction, there to be picked up by even the lowliest of the Foresters.

To Alann, they may as well have been wearing cowbells.

His keen eyes narrowed as he planned his attack. Luis had ran past earlier, completely oblivious to Alann’s presence. That was fine by the Woodsman; such hit and run favoured the stealthy and Luis was yet green. He laughed to himself for an instant. That anyone could be thought green after enduring what they had, hah! Yet they were the Foresters; they were measured by a different yardstick.

A rustling in the undergrowth caught his attention and he turned, silently, just as a flock of birds erupted from the gloom of the mid-day forest. He froze for long moments, rigid, mouth open to help him hear as the last of the wing beats died away. Keen eyes scanned the forest floor, but there was nothing there, no trace of what may have disturbed the birds. His gaze lingered moments more, eyebrows furrowed, before turning back to his quarry that prowled still on the forest path.

The man on the left had his crossbow slung across his back, unwound and unready. That weapon wouldn’t enter the equation; he would be using only the rondel dagger at his belt. He could be left till last. The other two had crossbows at the ready, bolts in place and ready to fly at the touch of a switch. One was encumbered, a large backpack across his shoulders and metal helmet atop his brow. The other unladen with such burdens.

Order of kill decided then; unladen crossbowman, other crossbowman, dagger-man. Three men, three swings of the axe. He nodded to himself in grim resolution, feeling the humming power coursing through the wooden handle of the simple, workman weapon at his side. Three men. Not even a… Wait. His eyes narrowed. Three…?

Cold steel pricked his cheek as rancid breath hissed through rotting teeth in a guttural parody of a laugh. Alann’s eyes strained in their sockets to look to the right, spying the end of a crossbow pressed hard against his face, the sweaty, unshaven militiaman grinning at his luck.

“Gotcha…”

Alann sniffed. Damn birds. The soldier’s finger twitched on the trigger and Alann made to turn, ready to pit his speed against the remorseless flight of steel, but never had the chance.

“No you don’t!”

A blur of motion, an impact of body on body, and the soldier went down, finger instinctively closing about the trigger. The metal bolt careened from the end of the weapon, just grazing Alann’s cheek in a whistle of air, but no time to check for damage. Two bodies rolled on the floor, crossbow discarded, forgotten, as the soldier went for his dagger, one booted foot sending the new  figure sprawling away. The newcomer leapt up, fingers grasping for the longbow on his back, but it wasn’t there, sent flying in the fracas. His fingers instead closed about the shaft of an arrow, whipping it out and hurling it end over end, even as the bellowing soldier closed the distance between them.

The militiaman’s corpse skidded to a halt at the newcomer’s feet in a flurry of fallen leaves, lifeless eyes gazing up into the last face he’d ever see, the shaft of the arrow sticking out  a clear foot from his throat.

The newcomer turned, a smile on his youthful face as he grasped his peaked cap and made a flourished bow to the Woodsman.