by John Gwynne
The crowd broke out in cheers as the couple raised their bound hands in the air.
‘Let’s see if you’re both still smiling tonight,’ said Heb, laughter rippling amongst the crowd.
Queen Alona strode forward and embraced the couple, King Brenin just behind, giving Marrock such a slap on the back that he nearly sent his nephew over the bay’s edge.
Dath nudged Corban in the ribs. ‘Let’s go,’ he whispered. They edged into the crowd, Gwenith calling them just before they disappeared.
‘Where are you two off to?’
‘Just going to have a look round, Mam,’ Corban replied. Traders had gathered from far and wide for the spring festival, along with many of Brenin’s barons come to witness Marrock’s handbinding. The meadow was dotted with scores of tents, cattle-pens and roped-off areas for various contests and games, and people: hundreds, it must be, more than Corban had ever seen gathered in one place before. Corban and Dath’s excitement had been growing daily, to the point where time had seemed to crawl by, and now finally the day was here.
‘All right,’ Gwenith said. ‘You both be careful.’ She reached into her shawl and pressed something into Corban’s hand: a silver piece.
‘Go and have a good time,’ she said, cupping his cheek in her hand. ‘Be back before sunset. I’ll be here with your da, if he’s still standing.’
‘’Course he will be, Mam,’ Corban said. His da, Thannon, would be competing in the pugil-ring today. He had been fist champion for as long as Corban could remember.
Corban leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Mam,’ he grinned, then turned and bolted into the crowd, Dath close behind him.
‘Look after your new cloak,’ she called out, smiling.
The two boys soon stopped running and walked along the meadow’s edge that skirted the beach and the bay, seals sunning themselves on the shore. Gulls circled and called above them, lured by the smell of food wafting from the fires and tents in the meadow.
‘A silver coin,’ said Dath. ‘Let me see it.’
Corban opened his palm, the coin damp now with sweat where he had been clutching it so tightly.
‘Your mam’s soft on you, eh, Ban?’
‘I know,’ replied Corban, feeling awkward. He knew Dath only had a couple of coppers, and it had taken him moons to earn that, working for his father on their fishing boat. ‘Here,’ he said, delving into a leather pouch hanging at his belt, ‘have these.’ He held out three coppers that he had earned from his da, sweating in his forge.
‘No thanks,’ Dath said with a frown. ‘You’re my friend, not my master.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that, Dath. I just thought–I’ve got plenty now, and friends share, don’t they?’
The frown hovered a moment, then passed. ‘I know, Ban.’ Dath looked away, out to the boats bobbing on the swell of the bay. ‘Just wish my mam was still here to go soft on me.’
Corban grimaced, not knowing what to say. The silence grew. ‘Maybe your da’s got more coin for you, Dath,’ he said, to break the silence as much as anything.
‘No chance of that,’ Dath snorted. ‘I was surprised to see this coin–most of it fills his cups these days. Come on, let’s go and find something to spend it on.’
The sun had risen high above the horizon now, bathing the meadow in warmth, banishing the last remnants of the dawn cold as the boys made their way amongst the crowd and traders’ tents.
‘I didn’t think there were this many people in all the village and Dun Carreg put together,’ said Dath, grunting as someone jostled past him.
‘People have come much further than the village and fortress, Dath,’ murmured Corban. They strolled on for a while, just enjoying the sun and the atmosphere. Soon they found themselves near the centre of the meadow, where men were beginning to gather around an area of roped-off grass. The sword-crossing ring.
‘Shall we stay, get a good spot?’ Corban said.
‘Nah, they won’t be starting for an age. Besides, everyone knows Tull is going to win.’
‘Think so?’
‘’Course,’ Dath sniffed. ‘He’s not the King’s first-sword for nothing. I’ve heard he cut a man in two with one blow.’
‘I’ve heard that too,’ said Corban. ‘But he’s not as young as he was. Some say he’s slowing down.’
Dath shrugged. ‘Maybe. We can come back later and see how long it takes him to crack someone’s head, but let’s wait till the competition’s warmed up a bit, eh?’
‘All right,’ said Corban, then cuffed his friend across the back of the head and ran, Dath shouting as he gave chase. Corban dodged this way and that around people. He looked over his shoulder to check where Dath was, then suddenly tripped and sprawled forwards, landing on a large skin that had been spread on the floor. It was covered with torcs, bone combs, arm-bands, brooches, all manner of items. Corban heard a low rumbling growl as he scrambled back to his feet, Dath skidding to a halt behind him.
Corban looked around at the scattered merchandise and began gathering up all that he could see, but in his urgency he fumbled and dropped most of it again.
‘Whoa, boy, less haste, more speed.’
Corban looked up and saw a tall wiry man staring down at him. He had long dark hair tied tight at his neck. Behind the man were all sorts of goods spread about an open-fronted tent: hides, swords, daggers, horns, jugs, tankards, horse harness, all hanging from the framework of the tent or laid out neatly on tables and skins.
‘You have nothing to worry about from me, boy, there’s no harm done,’ the trader said as he gathered up his merchandise. ‘Talar, however, is a different matter.’ He gestured to an enormous, grey-streaked hound that had risen to its feet behind Corban. It growled. ‘He doesn’t take kindly to being trodden on or tripped over; he may well want some recompense.’
‘Recompense?’
‘Aye. Blood, flesh, bone. Maybe your arm, something like that.’
Corban swallowed and the trader laughed, bending over, one hand braced on his knee. Dath sniggered behind him.
‘I am Ventos,’ the trader offered when he recovered, ‘and this is my faithful, though sometimes grumpy friend, Talar.’ Ventos clicked his fingers and the large hound padded over to his side, nuzzling the trader’s palm.
‘Never fear, he’s already eaten this morning, so you are both quite safe.’
‘I’m Dath,’ blurted the fisherman’s son, ‘and this is Ban–I mean, Corban. I’ve never seen a hound so big,’ he continued breathlessly, ‘not even your da’s, eh, Ban?’
Corban nodded, eyes still fixed on the mountain of fur at the trader’s side. He was used to hounds, had grown up with them, but this beast before him was considerably bigger. As he looked at it the hound growled again, a low rumble deep in its belly.
‘Don’t look so worried, boy.’
‘I don’t think he likes me,’ Corban said. ‘He doesn’t sound happy.’
‘If you heard him when he’s not happy you’d know the difference. I’ve heard it enough on my travels between here and Helveth.’
‘Isn’t Helveth where Gar’s from, Ban?’ asked Dath.
‘Aye,’ Corban muttered.
‘Who’s Gar?’ the trader asked.
‘Friend of my mam and da,’ Corban said.
‘He’s a long way from home, too, then,’ Ventos said. ‘Whereabouts in Helveth is he from?’
Corban shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’
‘A man should always know where he’s from,’ the trader said, ‘we all need our roots.’
‘Uhh,’ grunted Corban. He usually asked a lot of questions–too many, so his mam told him–but he didn’t like being on the receiving end so much.
A shadow fell across Corban, a firm hand gripping his shoulder.
‘Hello, Ban,’ said Gar, the stablemaster.
‘We were just talking about you,’ Dath said. ‘About where you’re from.’
‘What?’ said the stablemaster, frowning.
‘Th
is man is from Helveth,’ Corban said, gesturing at Ventos.
Gar blinked.
‘I’m Ventos,’ said the trader. ‘Where in Helveth?’
Gar looked at the merchandise hung about the tent. ‘I’m looking for harness and a saddle. Fifteen-span mare, wide back.’ He ignored the trader’s question.
‘Fifteen spans? Aye, I’m sure I’ve got something for you back here,’ replied Ventos. ‘I have some harness I traded with the Sirak. There’s none finer.’
‘I’d like to see that.’ Gar followed Ventos into the tent, limping slightly as always.
With that the boys began browsing through Ventos’ tent. In no time Corban had an armful of things. He picked out a wide iron-studded collar for his da’s hound, Buddai, a brooch of pewter with a galloping horse embossed on it for his sister, a dress-pin of silver with a red enamel inset for his mother and two sturdy practice swords for Dath and himself. Dath had picked out two clay tankards, waves of blue coral decorating them.
Corban raised an eyebrow.
‘Might as well get something my da’ll actually use.’
‘Why two?’ asked Corban.
‘If you cannot vanquish a foe,’ he said sagely, ‘then ally yourself to him.’ He winked.
‘No tankard for Bethan, then?’ said Corban.
‘My sister does not approve of drinking,’ replied Dath.
Just then Gar emerged from the inner tent with a bundle of leather slung over his back, iron buckles clinking as he walked. The stablemaster grunted at Corban and walked into the crowd.
‘Looks like you’ve picked up a fine collection for yourselves,’ the trader said to them.
‘Why are these wooden swords so heavy?’ asked Dath.
‘Because they are practice swords. They have been hollowed out and filled with lead, good for building up the strength of your sword arm, get you used to the weight and balance of a real blade, and they don’t kill you when you lose or slip.’
‘How much for all of these,’ Corban asked.
Ventos whistled. ‘Two and a half silvers.’
‘Would you take this if we leave the two swords?’ Corban showed the trader his silver piece and three coppers.
‘And these?’ said Dath, quickly adding his two coppers.
‘Deal.’
Corban gave him their coin, put the items into a leather bag that Dath had been keeping a slab of dry cheese and a skin of water in.
‘Maybe I’ll see you lads tonight, at the feast.’
‘We’ll be there,’ said Corban. As they reached the crowd beyond the tent Ventos called out to them and threw the practice swords. Instinctively Corban caught one, hearing Dath yelp in pain. Ventos raised a finger to his lips and winked. Corban grinned in return. A practice sword, a proper one, not fashioned out of a stick from his back garden. Just a step away from a real sword. He almost shivered at the excitement of that thought.
They wandered aimlessly for a while, Corban marvelling at the sheer numbers of the crowd, at the entertainments clamouring for his attention: tale-tellers, puppet-masters, fire-breathers, sword-jugglers, many, many more. He squeezed through a growing crowd, Dath in his wake, and watched as a piglet was released squealing from its cage, a score or more of men chasing it, falling over each other as the piglet dodged this way and that. They laughed as a tall gangly warrior from the fortress finally managed to throw himself onto the animal and raise it squeaking over his head. The crowd roared and laughed as he was awarded a skin of mead for his efforts.
Moving on again, Corban led them back to the roped-off ring where the sword-crossing was to take place. There was quite a crowd gathered now, all watching Tull, first-sword of the King.
The boys climbed a boulder at the back of the crowd to see better, made short work of Dath’s slab of cheese and watched as Tull, stripped to the waist, his upper body thick and corded as an old oak, effortlessly swatted his assailant to the ground with a wooden sword. Tull laughed, arms spread wide as his opponent jumped to his feet and ran at him again. Their practice swords clacked as Tull’s attacker rained rapid blows on the King’s champion, causing him to step backwards.
‘See,’ said Corban, elbowing his friend and spitting crumbs of cheese, ‘he’s in trouble now.’ But, as they watched, Tull quickly sidestepped, belying his size, and struck his off-balance opponent across the back of the knees, sending him sprawling on his face in the churned ground. Tull put a foot on the man’s back and punched the air. The crowd clapped and cheered as the fallen warrior writhed in the mud, pinned by Tull’s heavy boot.
After a few moments the old warrior stepped away, offered the fallen man his hand, only to have it slapped away as the warrior tried to rise on his own and slipped in the mud.
Tull shrugged and smiled, walking towards the rope boundary. The beaten warrior fixed his eyes on Tull’s back and suddenly ran at the old warrior. Something must have warned Tull, for he turned and blocked an overhead blow that would have cracked his skull. He set his legs and dipped his head as the attacking warrior’s momentum carried him forwards. There was a crunch as his face collided with Tull’s head, blood spurting from the man’s nose. Tull’s knee crashed into the man’s stomach and he collapsed to the ground.
Tull stood over him a moment, nostrils flaring, then he pushed his hand through long, grey-streaked hair, wiping the other man’s blood from his forehead. The crowd erupted in cheers.
‘He’s new here,’ said Corban, pointing at the warrior lying senseless in the mud. ‘I saw him arrive only a few nights ago.’
‘Not off to a good start, is he?’ chuckled Dath. ‘He’s lucky the swords were made of wood, there’s others have challenged Tull that haven’t got back up.’
‘Doesn’t look like he’s getting up any time soon,’ pointed out Dath, waving his hand at the warrior lying in the mud.
‘But he will.’
Dath glanced at Corban and suddenly lunged at him, knocking him off the rock they were sitting on. He snatched up his new practice sword and stood over Corban, imitating the scene they had just witnessed. Corban rolled away and climbed to his feet, edging slowly around Dath until he reached his own wooden sword.
‘So, you wish to challenge the mighty Tull,’ said Dath, pointing his sword at his friend. Corban laughed and ran at him, swinging a wild blow. For a while they hammered back and forth, taunting each other between frenzied bursts of energy.
Passers-by smiled at the two boys.
After a particularly furious flurry of blows Dath ended up on his back, Corban’s sword hovering over his chest.
‘Do–you–yield?’ asked Corban between ragged breaths.
‘Never,’ cried Dath and kicked at Corban’s ankles, knocking him onto his back.
They both lay there, gazing at the clear blue sky above, too weak with their exertions and laughter to rise, when suddenly, startling them, a voice spoke.
‘Well, what have we here, two hogs rutting in the mud?’
CHAPTER TWO
VERADIS
Veradis shifted in his saddle, trying to ease his aching muscles. He prided himself on being a good rider, smiled as he remembered his sixteenth nameday and his warrior trial, where he had become a man. He had executed a near-perfect running mount in front of his father’s gathered warband, all those days of youth and practice summed up in one moment, and although over two years had passed, he could still recall every detail: how he had clicked the grey stallion into a trot when his turn had arrived, run alongside it, his shield gripped in his left hand. The sound of hooves thudding on the ground, merging with the beating of his heart. Time had seemed to stand still as he grasped a handful of mane and launched himself from the ground, landing perfectly in the saddle in one fluid move. He remembered tears streaming from his eyes, the soaring sense of elation as dimly he heard the roaring of his father’s warband shouting their approval, clashing spears on shields. Even his father, Lamar, Baron of Ripa, had risen to his feet and cheered him.
He leaned forward and scratche
d his knee, the worn leather strips of his kilt plastered to his leg. Absently he patted the neck of the grey he was riding, a gift from his brother Krelis after his Long Night. Then he grimaced, shifting his weight again. Twelve nights straight in the saddle would test anyone, no matter how accomplished a horseman they were.
‘Sore arse, little brother?’ he heard a voice say behind him.
‘Aye. A little.’
Krelis urged his horse forward so that they rode side by side. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he said, his black beard splitting in a smile. ‘Anyway, I’d wager your pains are nothing compared to his.’ He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. ‘The only thing he’s ever ridden before is a ship’s deck.’
Veradis twisted in his saddle to look at the prisoner they were escorting to Jerolin. Iron rings in the man’s beard clinked gently with the rhythm of their pace as he looked straight ahead, blue eyes like chips of ice in his weathered face. He was covered in a lattice of scars, Veradis’ eyes drawn to the man’s nose, or what was left of it, its tip missing. Although his hands were bound behind his back, half a dozen warriors from Krelis’ warband still encircled the prisoner.
‘Do you really think he’s going to tell the King anything?’ asked Veradis.
His brother shrugged. ‘Father thinks so. And so does our precious brother, although he was too unwell to make this journey.’
‘Ektor is always unwell.’
Krelis smiled again. ‘Aye, little brother, he is a sickly thing. But his mind is sharp, as Father always reminds me. He will be my counsellor one day, when I am Baron of Ripa.’
Veradis looked up at his older brother, towering above him on his great black warhorse. You will make a good lord, he thought. Krelis, Lamar’s firstborn, had always been larger than life, leading men with an unconscious ease.
‘And you,’ said Krelis with a grin. ‘You will become my battle-chief, no doubt. Why, if you were a few handspans taller and wider I might be scared of you myself.’ He clapped Veradis across the shoulder, nearly knocking him from his horse.
