by John Gwynne
‘We’ll be there soon,’ blurted Corban. ‘My fourteenth nameday is this Eagle Moon, and Dath’s is not long after. Besides, you do use practice swords in the Rowan Field, my da told me…’ he trailed off, realizing that all eyes were on him.
‘Tull won’t let you two take the warrior trial,’ Rafe said. ‘Not once he knows you were rutting in the mud together like hogs.’
‘We weren’t “rutting”, we were practising our sword skills,’ said Corban slowly, as if explaining to a child. There was a moment of silence, then the group of lads erupted in laughter.
‘Come on, Rafe,’ said Vonn when they had all recovered, ‘the stone-throwing starts at high-sun and I want to see it.’
Rafe looked at Corban and Dath. ‘I’m not finished with these two yet.’
‘They’re just bairns, I’d rather spend my time in other company,’ Vonn said, pulling Rafe’s arm.
‘C’mon, Dath,’ Corban whispered, turning and walking quickly away. ‘Come on,’ he repeated with a hiss. Dath stood there a moment, then snatched up his leather bag and followed.
They walked in a straight line, their route taking them out of the meadow towards the village, trying to put as much distance between themselves and Rafe as possible.
‘Are they following?’ muttered Corban.
‘Don’t think so,’ replied Dath, but moments later they heard the thud of running feet. Rafe sped past them and pulled up in front of Corban.
‘You didn’t ask permission to leave,’ he said, jabbing a finger in Corban’s chest.
Corban took a deep breath, his heart beginning to pulse in his ears. He looked up at Rafe, who was a head taller and considerably broader than him. ‘Leave us alone Rafe. Please. It’s the Spring Fair.’
‘Don’t you have anything better to do?’ added Dath.
‘Leave us alone,’ mimicked Crain, who accompanied Rafe. Vonn and the others were nowhere to be seen. ‘Listen to him. Don’t let him talk to you like that, Rafe.’
‘Shut up, Crain,’ said Rafe. ‘I think these bairns need a lesson in courtesy.’ He grabbed Corban’s arm and half steered, half pulled him towards the first buildings of the village. Frantically Corban looked around, but they were quite a distance from the crowds now, and he saw Dath had been grabbed by Crain and was being herded along after him.
Within seconds the two boys were bustled behind a building, Corban thrown against a wall, knocking the wind out of him. His fingers went limp and he dropped his wooden practice sword.
Rafe slammed a fist into Corban’s stomach, doubling him over. Slowly he straightened.
‘Come on, blacksmith’s boy,’ snarled Rafe, fists raised. Corban just looked at him. He wanted to answer, wanted to raise his fists, but just–didn’t. His guts churned with a cold weightlessness. When he tried to speak, only a croak came out. He retched, feeling sick, and shook his head.
Rafe hit him again and he staggered, blood spurting from his lip. Fight back! a voice screamed in his head, but he only reached out an arm, steadied himself against the wall, feeling weak, scared. He looked at Dath, saw his friend launch himself forwards, punching and kicking, but Crain was older, stronger and Dath was small-framed even for his age. Crain clubbed him to the ground.
‘Nothing like your da, are you,’ spat Rafe.
Corban wiped blood from his lip. ‘What?’ he mumbled.
‘Your da would put up a fight, make it more interesting. You’re just a coward.’
For the briefest moment Corban felt something hot flicker within him, a spark of fire deep in the pit of his stomach, like when his da opened the door to his forge and the flames flared. He felt his fists clench and arms begin to rise, but then Rafe’s fist slammed into his jaw and the sensation disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Then he was falling, crashing to the ground with a thud.
‘Get up,’ jeered Rafe, but Corban just lay there, hoping it would all end soon, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.
Rafe kicked Corban in the ribs, then a voice shouted. A figure rounded the building and was moving quickly towards them.
‘I think I’ll have this,’ said Rafe, grinning fiercely as he bent and picked up Corban’s practice sword. Then he was running, his companion following quickly down an alley.
Dath knelt by Corban, trying to help him rise as the man who had shouted reached them. It was Gar.
‘What happened here?’ the stablemaster demanded as Corban pushed himself to his knees. He spat blood and stood, swaying slightly.
Dath reached out to steady his friend but Corban pushed his arm away. ‘Leave me alone,’ he whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks, smearing dust and blood. ‘Leave me alone,’ he said again, louder this time, turning away and rubbing furiously at his eyes, shame and anger filling him in equal measure.
‘Walk with me, boy,’ said Gar, and turned to Dath. ‘Best leave us for a while, lad.’
‘But he’s my friend,’ protested Dath.
‘Aye, but I would speak to Corban. Alone.’ He gave a look that sent Dath walking hesitantly away, though he looked back over his shoulder.
Corban turned quickly and strode in the other direction, not wanting anyone’s company, but in moments the stablemaster was walking beside him. For a while they walked in silence, Corban feeling too ashamed to talk, so he concentrated on controlling his rapid breathing. Slowly the sound of his blood pounding in his head quietened.
‘What happened back there?’ asked Gar eventually. Corban did not answer, not trusting his voice to remain steady. After another long silence Gar pulled him to a halt and turned him so that they were facing each other.
‘What happened?’ Gar repeated.
‘You trying to shame me even more, making me say it?’ snapped Corban. ‘You saw what happened. Rafe hit me and I–I did nothing.’
Gar pursed his lips. ‘He’s older, and bigger than you. You were intimidated.’
Corban snorted. ‘Even Dath fought. Would you have let someone hit you like that?’ When Gar did not answer, he tried to walk away, but the stablemaster gripped Corban’s shoulder, holding him still.
‘What caused the argument?’
Corban shrugged. ‘He needs little reason to hit people younger or smaller than he is.’
‘Huh,’ Gar grunted. ‘Did you want to hit him back?’
‘Of course,’ snorted Corban.
‘So why didn’t you?’
Corban looked at the ground. ‘Because I was scared. I wanted to fight back, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I tried; it was as if my arms had turned to stone, my feet stuck in one of Baglun’s bogs.’
Gar nodded slowly. ‘We all fear, Ban. Even Tull. It’s what we do about it–that’s the important thing. That’s what’ll make you the man you grow into. You must learn to control your emotions, boy. Those that don’t do that often end up dead: anger, fear, pride, whatever. If your emotions control you, sooner or later you’re a dead man.’
Corban looked up at him, his throbbing lip fading for a moment. He had never heard Gar say so many words strung together.
The stablemaster leaned forward and poked Corban in the chest. ‘Learn to control them and they can be a tool that makes you stronger.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Corban mumbled. ‘How?’
Gar looked at Corban a long while. ‘I will teach you if you wish,’ he said quietly.
Corban raised an eyebrow. Gar never trained in the Rowan Field or rode with a warband on account of an old leg wound–he’d walked with a limp as long as Corban could remember–so what the stablemaster could teach him, he didn’t know.
‘What?’ said Gar. ‘A wounded leg does not mean I’ve forgotten what it’s like to wield a sword, or to face a man in battle.’
Wield a sword. ‘All right,’ Corban shrugged. ‘Though Da is teaching me my weapons until I’m old enough for the Field.’
Gar snorted. ‘There is much Thannon can teach you, but how to hold your temper is not one of them.’
Corban smiled. H
is da was not well known for his patience.
‘We’ll keep it between us, for now,’ Gar said.
‘What, can’t I tell Cywen?’
‘Especially not Cywen.’ A rare smile touched the edges of Gar’s mouth. ‘She would not leave me alone. Gar, teach me this, Gar, teach me that,’ he mimicked. ‘No, she keeps me busy enough with the horses.’
Corban chuckled. Gar held out his arm and Corban gripped it.
‘Good. So,’ said Gar, ‘are you going to come back to the fair?’
‘Not yet.’ He looked past Gar at the milling crowds.
‘You’ll have to face them sooner or later, and the longer you leave it the harder it will be, like falling off a horse. And your friend will be worried.’
‘I know. I’ll come back after, just not right now. I think I’ll go and see Dylan.’
Gar nodded. ‘It’s a long walk to Darol’s hold. Let’s get you cleaned up and Willow saddled, that way you’ll be back by sunset for the end of the handbinding.’
Corban fell in silently and they made their way into the streets of Havan. Everywhere was deserted, the lure of the fair having emptied the village. Corban looked up, saw Dun Carreg high above, but even the fortress seemed still and empty. No one moved on the walls or around the great arch of Stonegate, looming above the only entrance into Dun Carreg.
They reached the stable and soon Corban was sitting on top of a solid bay pony, his face stinging after washing in the water barrel.
‘Hold one moment,’ said Gar and disappeared inside the stable. He soon returned with a leather saddlebag. ‘Just a few bits: some bread, cheese, a blanket, some rope. Always be prepared,’ he added in response to Corban’s quizzical look. ‘You never know what’s going to happen.’
Corban smiled ruefully, touching his cut lip. ‘That you don’t.’
‘Remember, back by sunset. Look after Willow and he’ll look after you. And stay away from the Baglun. There’s been talk of wolven being seen.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Corban. He didn’t believe that. The only time wolven had ventured to the forest’s fringes was in winter, tempted by the smell of horseflesh in Dun Carreg’s paddocks. And that was only rare, when the Tempest Moon had come and snow was drifting deep. They preferred deep forest to open spaces.
Soon Corban was clear of Havan and riding on the road that led to the Baglun Forest. The giantsway, all called it, as the vanquished Benothi had made it, the giant clan that had ruled here long ago, before men had taken the land from them. It cut a line through Ardan and Narvon, though there was less traffic between the two realms than there had once been. So now the road was overgrown with grass and moss, its raised banks crumbling. In the distance Corban could see the small hill that Dylan’s home was built upon, the river Tarin glistening behind it in the midday sun, and further in the distance the dark smear of Baglun Forest filled the horizon.
The day had grown hot, the breeze off the sea only a faint caress. Tentatively, Corban touched his lip, which was throbbing painfully. His head hurt and his ribs were aching where Rafe had kicked him. He sighed: where had the day gone so wrong?
Rafe’s face came back unbidden, his smirk as he had taken the practice sword and run from Gar. Corban’s neck flushed as he felt the shame of it all over again. Maybe I am a coward. I wish I was like my da, strong and fearless. What had Gar meant about controlling his emotions? How could you be taught to do that? Whatever it was, if it helped him teach Rafe a lesson, then he was willing to give it a try. As far back as Corban could remember, Gar had always been around, was a close friend of his mam and da’s. In truth he was a little scared of the man; he always seemed to be so stern, so serious. But he was intrigued by Gar’s offer of help.
Slowly a noise filtered through his thoughts and he looked up. In the distance he saw a large wain coming towards him, two figures driv ing, others walking and running beside it.
‘Dylan.’ Willow’s steady pace had eaten up much of the journey, the rocky grassland around Havan giving way to fertile meadows as he drew nearer to the river. Yellow gorse had been replaced by juniper and hawthorn, and Darol’s hold loomed large before him.
Darol, Dylan’s da, was sitting in the front of a heavy-laden wain, driving a dun pony, his wife next to him. Dylan was walking one side of the wain and his sister and her husband striding along behind, their son Frith running circles around them. Corban smiled at the sight. He had seen too little of them over the winter; his mam hadn’t let him travel much past Havan during the season of storms, her fears fuelled by tales of hungry wolven. But the summer before he had spent more of his time out here, mostly in the company of Dylan. They had argued the first time they had met, Corban defending his sister over something she had said. Somehow it had ended in laughter, and soon after Corban and Dylan had become firm friends, even though Dylan was a few years older.
Dylan worked hard for his da, but when Corban visited, Dylan more often than not made time for him, quickly showing him the tasks of the farm, digging holes for fence posts, planting and reaping their crops, catching salmon, a host of other things. More interesting to Corban, though, had been being shown how to use a sling, how to recognize different animal tracks, and how to hunt, skin and cook hare. Most exciting of all were the short forays into the fringes of the Baglun Forest. The forest seemed to be a different world, sometimes unnerving, but always alluring. He looked at the Baglun now, its vast sweep disappearing into the distance. A larger forest he could not imagine, not even the fabled forest of Forn, far to the east, said to be bigger than half the realms of the Banished Lands put together. He snorted, remembering his trips with Dylan into the Baglun. Towards the end of last summer, when Dylan had been busy from dusk till dawn with harvest, Corban had taken to entering the forest alone, had felt proud when he had confided in Dath and invited his friend to join him. Dath made the sign against evil, turned pale and told him he was either very brave or more likely mad. Truth be told, it was nothing to do with bravery, which he was distinctly lacking if his encounter with Rafe was anything to go by. He just liked it in the forest, although the thought of his mam finding out made him shiver even in the warmth of the sun.
Dylan was only a hundred or so paces away, now. Corban pulled Willow to a halt and waited. Darol nodded as he drove the wain past Corban, Dylan peeling away from the cart and strolling over to him.
‘Hello, Ban,’ he said, then frowned as he saw Corban’s bruised face. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I fell,’ said Corban. ‘I was coming to see you, maybe help with the salmon. Looks like I’m too late.’
‘Da had it all sacked up by sunrise. And we’ve got to get the food to Havan in time to prepare it for the feast. Another time, eh?’
Just then Frith ran up behind Dylan and, with a loud crack, kicked him in the ankle. He giggled and turned to run but Dylan, hopping on one leg, grabbed the youngster and hoisted him into the air, legs pumping as if he were still running. When he realized escape was futile he went limp and grinned. Dylan swung him higher to sit upon his shoulders.
‘You’re getting too old for this–it’s your ninth nameday soon.’
‘But I like it up here,’ Frith protested.
‘Very well, if it keeps you out of trouble.’ Dylan turned back to Corban. ‘Come with us? I can’t wait to have a look round the fair.’
‘No thanks. I’ve just come from there.’
‘All right, Ban, but you’ll be back for the handbinding, won’t you?’
Corban nodded.
‘Good, then you can tell me all about this fall.’
‘Argh,’ Dylan yelled as Frith gripped his ears and gave them a mighty tug. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You’re my horse. Charge!’ Frith shouted, pulling Dylan’s ears again. Dylan grabbed his nephew’s hands in his and trotted after the wain, calling goodbyes to Corban over his shoulder.
Frith grinned at Corban, who raised his fist and shook it, trying not to laugh.
For a while he just sat on Willow,
watching the wain dwindle into the distance as he wondered what to do. Then his eyes turned back to the Baglun and with a click of his tongue he urged Willow on down the road.
CHAPTER FOUR
EVNIS
Evnis took the skin of mead from Helfach, his huntsman. He unstoppered it and drank, the taste of honey sweet, the alcohol warming his gut.
‘It’s good, eh?’ Helfach said.
‘Huh,’ grunted Evnis. He had more important things on his mind than the quality of the mead he was drinking. So many years had passed since he’d sworn his oath to Asroth and become accomplice to Rhin, Queen of Cambren. And now he had risen far, was counsellor to Brenin, King of all Ardan. That night in the Darkwood Forest seemed like another life. It had been terrifying, but intoxicating as well. He felt some of that now: fear and excitement mixed as the consequences of that oath were emerging from the past.
They were sitting in a dell on the southern fringe of the Baglun Forest, almost half a day’s ride from Dun Carreg. Further south a great herd of auroch trampled the moorland, the ground vibrating at their passing. A dust cloud hovered above the herd, marking them like some enormous predator.
‘Where is he?’ Evnis murmured.
Helfach looked up, shading his eyes. ‘You said highsun, so should be any time now.’
‘I hate waiting,’ Evnis growled. He wanted to get back to Fain, his wife. She was unwell, needed him. The worry of it chewed at him.
Helfach grinned. They sat in silence, passing the skin between them. Then Evnis’ horse lifted its head, ears twitching.
‘There,’ said Helfach, pointing.
A figure slipped between trees and made its way towards them.
‘Hood up,’ Evnis said, pulling his own to cover his face.
The figure drew closer and Evnis rose, strode towards the newcomer. He was tall, an unstrung bow in his hand, a face full of lines and creases. And cold eyes. Evnis thought he was younger than he looked.
‘This is for you.’ The man held out a leather cylinder.
Evnis pulled the parchment out, cracked the wax seal and read in silence. After long moments he grimaced, rolled the parchment and slipped it into his cloak.
