Keles shook his head. Though everyone had worked slavishly rebuilding the fortress, they’d barely been able to raise a five-foot wall on the old foundation. The fact that he saw no siege machinery amid the enemy ranks meant the wall would hold for a bit.
“I don’t think they need any more of an advantage.”
“But they will likely have one.” The Viruk pointed east toward a dark line of thunderheads moving toward them. “By midnight the rain will be here. We won’t see them until they are two hundred yards off.”
“We don’t stand a chance, do we?”
The Viruk’s lips peeled back in a terrible smile, revealing needle-sharp teeth. “I have seen such situations before.”
“And you survived? Then there is hope for us yet.”
Rekarafi shook his head and pointed east. “I was in their position.”
“Oh.” Keles’ shoulders slumped, aching with the exertion of the day. “You’ve never been a defender?”
“I have. I was in the company of heroes.” He looked back toward the peasants swarming over the walls. “They have been heroic, but they are not heroes.”
“Yeah.” Keles shook his head as the Viruk drank again. “I’m sorry I got you into all this.”
“Ha!” The Viruk crouched until he was eye to eye with Keles. “I am the one who brought myself here. My impetuous action left me in your debt. And know this, I shall be dead ere they harm a hair on your head.”
“I don’t know if you meant that to be comforting or not, but I don’t take it that way.” Keles dug inside his robe and pulled out a small leather pouch. He weighed it in his hand, then extended it toward the Viruk. “I remember what you said when we were out west.”
Rekarafi gave him the waterskin, then accepted the pouch. He opened it and poured a dozen white stones into his palm. He studied them for a moment, then poured them back into the pouch and flipped it back to Keles.
“I do not accept them.”
Keles caught the pouch against his chest. “But you said that when a Viruk dies, if there are more white stones in his grave than black, he’ll be allowed into paradise.”
“The white stones are earned, Anturasi, not just collected.”
“And I could tell you a good deed you’ve done for each one. A good deed for me, a good deed for these people. If I told them what the stones were for, you’d have one from each of them, and then some.” Keles pointed at the Eyeless Ones. “Just venturing back behind their lines to delay them a day should earn you a mountain of white stones.”
“That matters not.” The Viruk poked him in the chest with a finger. “I do not accept them because it would mean I agree with you that we are lost. I do not.”
“But you said…”
“No, you read into my words.” Rekarafi’s dark eyes became slits. “You gather stones to ease your mind of a burden. You have responsibility for all the lives here. The threat they are under is because of you. If I accept those stones, I am agreeing you have done all you can to save them.”
“I have!”
“Have you?” The Viruk cocked his head. “Here is the question for you, Keles Anturasi: have you done all you can to show these people how to live, or have you just shown them how to delay death a little longer? How you embrace death means nothing. How you live your life is everything.”
Keles tossed the waterskin aside, peeled his robe down, and knotted the sleeves around his waist. “You think that’s it? You think I’m ready to die?”
“Talk, talk, talk. An epitaph echoing.”
“Fine, let’s go.” Keles bent over and dug at a stone. “You want stones, you want to earn stones, let’s go. I’ll match you stone for stone.”
The Viruk laughed. “This is not a fight you can win.”
“But it’s the best fight I have, until they come.”
Fury and shame raced through Keles, coloring his cheeks. He ripped stones from the earth and staggered to the walls with them. He shrugged off attempts to help him carry them. He placed a stone and twisted it, fitting it to those below tightly, then returned for another, again and again.
Rekarafi matched him, stone for stone, curse for curse, harsh laugh for harsh laugh. They laughed at how silly they looked, caked with dust and streaked with sweat. They laughed at the Eyeless Ones who couldn’t see how hard they labored at a futile task. They laughed at their own mortality.
And yet somewhere within the futility and defiance, a thought took root in Keles’ heart. One more stone. One more stone. Somewhere there was a stone, the stone, the stone that would make the defense work. The stone that would hold the enemy back, the stone that would turn a sword or crush a head and break the back of the enemy advance. There would be a stone worth nine men or nine times nine.
All around him the others began to work anew, as if his energy rejuvenated them. Though they had already worked themselves to the point of death, they rallied and worked harder. Those who fell were pulled aside, given water and revived, while others stepped up and accepted their burdens. A few did die, and a few others were too exhausted to continue working, but most returned to the construction with a few minutes’ rest.
Someone began to sing. It was a simple song, an old song normally sung by farmers as they plowed their fields and cast aside rocks. The song spoke of their battles against weather and insects. The irony of it all prompted laughter, which people spun into singing even louder. As long as the song kept going, so would they.
After nightfall, as the clouds rolled in to hide the stars and moons, Keles himself collapsed. He wasn’t aware of when he’d gone down or how long he had been unconscious. He realized he was dreaming when he heard thunder crack and echo through his skull. He opened his eyes and found himself in the bottom of a pit.
It’s a grave.
People passed by him on both sides. Lightning flashes revealed their faces. Some people he recognized from among the refugees even though their skulls had been crushed or faces slashed open. The children were the worst, for the wounds left by spears and sword were so much bigger. As each of them passed by they opened a hand above him and released a stone.
A black stone.
Ghoal nuan. Damnation stones!
He struggled to escape the grave, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Lightning flashed again and Rekarafi dropped a huge black stone in that smashed his legs. Majiata tossed another black stone. His brother and sister, his mother, uncle, and grandfather also pelted him. Even his father, shrouded in silhouette, gave him a black stone.
Then Tyressa came, and with her Jasai. Worse than the stones they cast were the looks of pity. They mourned not only the loss of their lives and his, but the loss of what their lives could have produced together.
Thunder exploded again and rain began to pelt down. He raised a hand to wipe his face and opened his eyes again. Cold rain hit him. Fat, heavy drops exploded on stones. In the backlight of lightning he saw everyone surrounding him still working, though the song had died and the rain was beginning to erode their strength.
Not yet half-awake, Keles rolled onto his stomach and began to claw at the midden that had once been the fortress’ central tower. “One more stone, one more stone, one more stone…” He tore at the dirt with his fingers, cast aside rocks and handfuls of mud. The rain splashed a ragged edge clean and he dug his fingers in.
He tore at the rock and his hands slipped. Flesh ripped. “One more stone, one more stone.” This was it. It was the stone. He was sure of it. Once he had it, they would all be saved.
But it would not come up. More rain revealed that the crack ran several feet, then turned across a clean edge. The stone he was trying to pull free would have filled the grave he awoke in. He could no more have moved it than he could have felled a moon by throwing a rock.
“But it is the stone!”