Free Master of the Cauldron by David Drake

Merota’s hand, moved around to the side Ilna had just left. The child had a wide-eyed expression; if she’d been offended by the sailor’s quick manhandling, there was no sign of it.
    Ilna touched the notch her first strokes had made. The hatchet was iron and completely of this world. Its presence severed the unseen veins of the binding spell at the same time it cut through the woody stem.
    â€œNow…,” she said, speaking to bring her concentration to the precise spot. She chopped into the center of the notch, twisted the hatchet free, and chopped again. Changing the angle, she made a third cut that spat out a chunk of wood the size of her fist.
    The stem above the notch shook convulsively. Ilna bent it back with the flat of her left hand, then chopped a final time with all her strength. The stem broke, toppling sideways under the pull of its heavy foliage.
    â€œThere!” Ilna cried. She set the hand axe down.
    The statue shifted. It twisted its face up, no longer basalt but a stocky man lying nude on the ground. “Get back!” he shouted. “You’ll be caught when—”
    Ilna plunged forward as the world around her blurred. She thought she heard Merota scream, but she couldn’t be sure because the very fabric of the cosmos was shrilling about her.
    The last thing Ilna saw in this world was the great granite spike glaring down at them. It looked almost human.
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    Cashel hadn’t exactly been following the ewe, but he’d wandered around the granite spike alongside her, keeping two or three double paces away. Now and again you’d find a ewe that was jumpy about lambs she’d suckled, let alone human beings. This was one such. Some sheep were just like that, and some people too, of course.
    The ewe had a stye in her left eyelid that ought to be drained, but it didn’t seem her regular shepherd had managed to do it. Cashel figured he would, at any rate, if they stayed on this little island for a few days. It was a way to make it up to the shepherd who’d had to run when the fleet arrived; and anyway, the ewe would appreciate it.
    A wren hung upside down on the trunk of a dogwood, singing with the loud determination of his kind. Other birds sing and maybe sing to you, but there was never any doubt that a wren was singing at the whole world. They were smart, talented little birds, pretty though without the flashy colors that got the attention; and they were also just as hard as the cracked boulder in which the dogwood tree had rooted.
    Cashel smiled. Wrens reminded him of his sister Ilna.
    He paused beside the boulder. The ewe stopped also. For a moment she stared at Cashel with one eye, then the other. At last she lowered her head and began to graze.
    From there Cashel could look out over the island’s east shore, the same view across the Inner Sea that he’d had from the pasture south of Barca’s Hamlet. Ships were drawn up all along the beach below. Soldiers were setting up camp like ants scrambling to rebuild the hill an ox had trod on.
    There was no end of ruins, houses fallen into rock piles and overgrown with brush. They’d been built with fancy stones, some of them, pinks and greens and yellows that showed through the alders and euonymus if you knew how to look. They were all knocked down, now. Sails for tarpaulins spread up and down the shore to shelter the soldiers and sailors from the forest of ships.
    The ewe suddenly turned and bolted, her jaws still working with the sidewise rolling motion sheep and cows too used to grind up their food. Cashel heard the scrunch of boots to his right and leaned around the corner of the boulder to see.
    A soldier was walking up the slope. There was no doubt what he was from the hobnailed boots, but he was using his spear, the only piece of equipment he carried, as a walking stick the way Cashel did his quarterstaff.
    â€œHello there,” Cashel said, stepping into full sight so it