by John Gwynne
Soft footsteps sounded behind them and stopped next to Veradis. He looked around, saw Fidele standing above him. The Queen’s face was pale, highlighting her red-painted lips; touches of silver showed in her jet hair.
The three warriors made to rise but she held a hand out and rested it on Veradis’ shoulder.
‘I heard what you did for my son.’
Veradis felt he should say something and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ Fidele continued. ‘He needs good men around him. Men like you.’
‘Thank you,’ Veradis mumbled, feeling heat in his face.
Fidele smiled, squeezed his shoulder and walked away.
‘Brave you might be,’ Rauca said, ‘but eloquent you certainly are not.’
Bos chuckled and Veradis blushed redder.
The next ten-night passed quickly for Veradis, life falling into a routine, most of his time spent in training with Nathair’s fledgling warband. The Prince was rarely with them, though. Upon his return Nathair had outlined their journey and the meeting with Lykos’ counsellor to Aquilus, detailing the treaty proposed by the Vin Thalun. Aquilus had not been as enthusiastic as Nathair had hoped, though, taking days to deliberate over the proposal. So when Veradis had last seen Nathair the Prince had been tense and short tempered.
The warband, though small, continued to grow: any that came to the fortress hoping to serve as a warrior for the King of Tenebral being offered the choice of joining Nathair’s band instead. On the eighth morning since their return from the south, Veradis was in the weapons court, sweating heavily after sparing with Bos, his knuckles red and stinging from a glancing blow. He had won the bout, though, and was quickly getting a reputation amongst Jerolin’s warriors. On more than one occasion he had noticed weapons-master Armatus watching him approvingly.
As he sat watching others train, letting the sun dry his sweat, footsteps sounded behind him. He turned and saw Nathair striding towards him, grinning broadly.
‘It is done, Father has agreed,’ the Prince said, clapping Veradis’ shoulder.
‘That is good,’ Veradis said, though years of mistrust where the Vin Thalun were concerned dampened his enthusiasm.
‘Our prisoner Deinon will take the answer to Lykos.’
‘Aquilus not separating his head from his shoulders, then?’ Veradis said.
‘Of course not. That would not be the best way to begin a new alliance,’ Nathair grinned.
Voices and footsteps rang behind them. King Aquilus strode past the court, Deinon and two eagle-guards behind him.
Nathair watched them for a moment, then followed, signalling for Veradis to accompany him. They caught up at the stables, where Deinon was mounting a horse, as were the two eagle-guards. With a brief farewell the Vin Thalun rode away, the scroll-case strapped safely inside a saddlebag. The eagle-guards fell in behind the corsair and rode with him from the fortress.
‘Walk with me,’ Aquilus said to his son. He strode away, Nathair and Veradis following.
They walked in silence a while, Aquilus leading them until they stood upon the battlements, looking out across the lake and plains beyond. Deinon and his escort were pinpricks in the distance, now. ‘Why the warrior escort, Father?’ Nathair asked. ‘It is a simple enough journey to the coast.’
‘They are to make sure he reaches the coast, Nathair, that he does not linger, or take any detours. I do not trust him. I do not trust them.
‘For generations the Vin Thalun have raided our coasts, along with the coasts of our neighbours. And now, suddenly, they want to make peace, form an alliance, and with us only. Why not Tarbesh, or Carnutan? Why Tenebral? Meical thinks the timing of this is more than coincidence. I agree with him.’
Nathair’s face clouded. ‘Counsellor Meical.’ He snorted. ‘I don’t trust the Vin Thalun either, Father. But they are useful, that is beyond doubt. We must be wary, that is all.’
‘Aye, son. You must bait a trap well to catch your prey. I would know what the Vin Thalun seek to achieve. This seems the best way to do that.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘You have done well, but these are dangerous times. War is coming, and we must be vigilant…’
War, Veradis thought. He was still tracking the departing Vin Thalun when he saw a large group of horsemen on the road, riding towards the fortress. ‘Who are they?’ he said.
The three of them stared in silence until the approaching horsemen were almost at the gates. They were a party of forty or fifty warriors, carrying a banner that Veradis had never seen before, a sickle moon in a star-filled sky.
‘So it begins,’ Aquilus said quietly. ‘They carry the banner of Tarbesh. I believe it is Rahim, Tarbesh’s King. The first to answer my call to council.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CORBAN
‘Where do you think he’s from, Mam?’ Cywen asked. Corban was picking at a bowl of porridge, stirring a spoonful of honey into swirling shapes. Gwenith frowned at Thannon absently as she sat in front of the hearth, toasting bread on a long fork.
Gwenith sighed. ‘I don’t know, though doubtless you don’t believe me, because if you’ve asked me once you’ve asked me five score times.’
‘Someone must know,’ said Cywen despairingly. ‘Da?’
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Thannon over a mouthful of honey-cake.
‘A white eagle on the shield. That’s what you said, Ban, wasn’t it.’
‘Aye.’
‘Who’s sign is that?’
‘We’ll eat in the feast-hall tonight. Maybe Brenin will announce who his visitor is over the evening meal,’ said Gwenith, sliding another thick piece of toasted bread onto a plate in front of everybody. Belying his size, Thannon snatched it first, and smiled to himself as he spread a thick scoop of butter on it. Cywen was silent, her nose crinkling in that familiar way when she was thinking.
‘You’re probably right, but that’s ages away.’
‘Patience, lass,’ said Thannon, leaning contentedly back in his chair, rubbing his belly. Corban frowned. That was one phrase that he really found objectionable, as it usually meant shut up, or let’s change the subject. By the look on Cywen’s face she was thinking something similar.
‘C’mon, lad, let’s get the fire lit. More scythes to make today.’
Corban grimaced. His shoulder was aching from yesterday’s hard work, and a particularly painful blister was throbbing in the crease where his thumb met his hand.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ Cywen said, ‘Gar told me he needs to speak to you today, Ban. I’m going straight to his stables–walk with me, eh, go to the forge after? If that is all right with you, Da.’
‘Aye, that’d be fine. I’ll see you after, Ban,’ said Thannon, standing and brushing crumbs from his tunic. He strode from the kitchen, his hound Buddai following. Corban and Cywen left soon after, leaving their mother still sitting by the fire, staring into the crackling flames in the hearth.
‘What does Gar want?’ Corban asked Cywen. He was back on speaking terms with her now. The horror of Dylan’s death had at least caused him to reassess the gravity of Cywen’s impulsive crime.
‘I don’t know. I did ask, but he wouldn’t tell me. He can be very close-mouthed sometimes.’
‘Huh,’ Corban grunted in agreement.
The stables were a massive building of wood and thatch. The giant Benothi had of course not ridden horses, and so had not built stables, thus Ard had had to build his own amongst the stone buildings of the old fortress.
They found stablemaster Gar in the paddocks near the stables with the roan colt that Cywen had bought at the Spring Fair. He had the colt’s foreleg balanced across his knee and was applying some kind of salve, digging it out of a pot with his fingertips, plastering it liberally on the cut where Cywen had removed the thorn. Corban and Cywen stood quietly by while he finished bandaging the hoof, Corban wrinkling his nose at the smell of the salve.
‘He’s doing well,’ Gar said, patting the roan’s neck.
‘That’s right.’ Gar looked pointedly at Cywen. She frowned and didn’t look up, picking instead at a burr in the colt’s mane. The silence stretched for long, uncomfortable moments, then a voice called Cywen’s name.
Edana was walking quickly towards them, a smile on her face, a warrior striding close behind her.
‘Hello, Cywen, Gar, Corban.’ The Princess smiled in turn at them. ‘I was hoping to find you here,’ she said to Cywen. ‘If you have the time, I was wondering if you might like to join me on a ride.’
Cywen grinned. ‘I’d like to very much, but Gar has not told me what my morning chores are yet.’ She looked at her feet.
The stablemaster gave a rare smile of his own. ‘Ride with the Princess,’ he said. ‘Please.’
Cywen wrapped her arms around Gar, planting a kiss on his cheek, then she and Edana set off towards the stables, the warrior with Edana taking long strides to keep up with them.
‘How are you, Ban?’ said Gar.
‘Well enough,’ Corban said with a shrug, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, looking at the turf.
There was a long silence. Corban eventually raised his eyes, meeting Gar’s gaze. ‘How am I supposed to be? My friend is dead. Dylan was murdered.’ He sighed. ‘I am many things, Gar: angry, sad. Sometimes I even forget about what has happened and feel happy, for a time. That is the worst.’
‘Have you seen that young bully Rafe since the Spring Fair?’
‘Only from a distance. It doesn’t seem as important now.’
Gar grunted. ‘That is good. But it will not go away. My offer still stands–do you remember?’
‘Yes.’
Cywen, Edana and the warrior rode out of the stable doors.
‘Do you still wish to meet?’ the stablemaster asked, quietly.
In truth Corban had all but forgotten Gar’s offer of teaching him, but memories of Rafe came vividly back.
‘Aye, I do.’
‘Then meet me here, tomorrow morning. If you are not here when the sun touches the peaks of the cliffs I will know you’ve changed your mind. We’ll not speak of it again.’
Without another word Gar limped towards the stables.
Corban had never seen the feast-hall so full. All were welcome at the King’s table, but in reality most of the smaller holds within the fortress, such as Thannon’s, took their evening meals in their own homes. Not tonight, though. Conversation thrummed around the room as Corban sat on a bench, squashed between his da and his sister.
A door at the rear of the chamber opened; the murmur of voices in the hall faltered. Brenin swept in, Ardan’s King stern-faced, accompanied by the eagle-messenger.
Brenin made his way to the firepit and cut the first slice of meat to begin the meal.
All became noise again as the rest of the hall set about eating.
Corban washed his food down with a mug of ale, scowling when he saw Rafe standing behind Evnis.
Brenin pushed his half-filled trencher back and stood, all eyes turning to him.
‘On the morrow I must leave Ardan, for a time,’ he said. Silence.
‘A messenger has come from Tenebral,’ he continued, gesturing to the man sitting at his side.
‘Aquilus, King of Tenebral, High King of the Banished Lands, has called a kings’ council.’
Gasps around the hall now.
‘This is the first time this has happened since the Exiles were washed up on the shores of these Banished Lands, over a thousand years ago. I must be there. I leave Alona in my stead. She will rule in my place until I return.’
‘What about Darol and his slaughtered family?’ a voice cried out, faceless in the crowd. Brenin nodded slowly. ‘I have not forgotten my oath. Pendathran will take a warband into the Baglun Forest. He will not return until he has caught those responsible. Alive, I hope, so that they may face my judgement when I return.’
Pendathran thumped the table with his fist, trenchers and cups leaping into the air.
‘May the Ben-Elim protect you while I am away,’ Brenin said, then he turned and left the chamber.
Noise erupted around the room as the door closed, everyone in the hall talking at once.
Corban lay in his bed, fingers laced behind his head as he stared at the roof, watching shadows flicker across it cast by torchlight from the hall. The muted sound of conversation drifted into his room, his mam and da talking in the kitchen. He snorted. They had been annoyingly silent when he and Cywen had wanted to talk about Brenin’s announcement, but since he and his sister had been bustled off to their beds the two had not seemed to stop talking.
His mam paid special attention to teaching him and Cywen their histories, as far back as the Scourging, and he had recognized the name of Tenebral as soon as Brenin had mentioned it, a hot country far to the south and east, where men wore sandals and skirts, not boots and breeches. He snorted at the thought of it. Tenebral. Just the sound of it had him excited, somehow. He sighed. He could not sleep, although he had been lying here a long while.
A soft tapping filtered into his room, the latch of the kitchen door turning, a draught suddenly blowing around him. Footsteps and then the door clicked shut. He held his breath to hear better, but there was only silence, then the clinking of mugs and the scrape of chairs. Silence again.
Sleep completely banished by curiosity now, he carefully pulled back his woollen blanket and inched himself out of bed. He tiptoed to his open doorway, crept a few paces down the corridor to the kitchen, stopping when he dared go no further, and held his breath again, straining to hear who the visitor was. More silence, then Gar’s distinctive voice drifted from the kitchen.
‘It is coming then. We must be more vigilant than ever.’
‘Aye,’ his mother sighed. Then chair legs scraped and Corban fled back to his bed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EVNIS
Evnis stood by his wife’s bedside. And for now, his duties as King Brenin’s counsellor were far from his mind. She was sleeping, her chest rising in shallow, bird-like breaths. He felt the frustration in him like a weight, a raw anger at his uselessness. Her fingers twitched and he reached out, stroking the back of her hand.
There was a time when all he had felt was hatred; for his brother, Gethin, for his mother, with her mocking condescension. Then he had been handbound to Fain. Strange that his brother’s most spiteful deed had resulted in Evnis’ greatest happiness. Gethin thought that wedding Evnis into such a minor family would be a source of immense pain to his younger brother, and at first he had been right. But Evnis had fallen in love with Fain. Not instantly, like a thunderbolt, but gradually, incrementally, day by day. It was her kindness that had won him in the end, her ability to see only good. And somehow his love for her dulled his hatred of others, never completely removed it, but made it feel less important, somehow.
But, seeing her like this, he could feel it all bubbling back to the surface, fuelled by his great fear of losing her. He wanted to lash out and kill something. Or someone.
He thought back to Rhin and that long-past night in the forest, when he had learned of the book beneath the fortress that contained the secrets of the earth power. He had to find the giants’ book.
Uthas had told him of it on that night in the forest long ago, and in a handful of whispered meetings since. Told him that Uthas’ giant clan had dug a labyrinth of tunnels beneath Dun Carreg, and that in those tunnels were treasures, one of them a book teaching the secrets of the earth power. When Evnis first came to Dun Carreg and worked his way into Brenin’s good graces, he had searched long and hard, but to no avail. He was in the right tower, was looking in the right region, he was sure, but nothing. Over time he had given up. But now, looking at Fain, he had to find the book. He had been told it could prolong Fain’s life long enough to take her to the cauldron, hidden far to the north in Uthas’ homeland. Since he had received the message from Rhin on the day of the Spring Fair, reminding him of
the power of the book, he had renewed his efforts. Day and night he had set men of his hold to digging out the basements of this tower. But the rock was hard, the basements deep and wide, and so far nothing had been found.
And now King Brenin was leaving, had announced in the feast-hall that on the morrow he was going to Tenebral, at his fellow king’s summons. The time approaches. Events were escalating, all that he had waited for, planned for, was coming to a head. He felt his pulse quicken: fear, excitement? Probably both.
There was a soft knock on the door. His chief huntsman, Helfach. ‘We’ve found something.’
Evnis almost ran to the basement, down spiral stairs and through a series of low-ceilinged rooms. A handful of warriors were in the corner of a room, most of the stone floor torn up, only dark earth or rock beneath. Bricks had been levered from the wall, revealing a door, thick oak, iron-banded.
‘It won’t open,’ one of the warriors muttered.
‘Of course not,’ Evnis said, ‘it will be locked. Axes.’
In short time the door was splintering, two men hacking at the old oak. When it was wide enough for a man to walk through, Evnis called for torches. Helfach had fetched one of his hounds, a tall grey beast. It whined as the huntsman led it through the doorway into the darkness. Evnis followed, two spearmen behind him.
They were in a tunnel, high and wide, the walls slick and damp. Helfach led them on, the path sloping gently down, turning. Smaller openings dotted the tunnel wall, passages burrowing into the darkness. Suddenly they were in a cavern, walls arching high and wide, veins of blue spiralling through grey rock, glistening. Two archways led out of the cavern, one going up, one down.
Helfach called out. His hound was sniffing at the wall, ears flat. Helfach held his torch out, burned away cobweb as thick as tapestry to reveal another doorway.
It led to a smaller room, round, two rows of giant axes and war-hammers edging it, all thick with dust and web, meeting at a tomb. Larger than any man would need.
‘Elyon save us,’ whispered one of the spearmen.
