by John Gwynne
He won’t even listen, let alone save you, Evnis thought.
With great effort they heaved the flat stone lid off the tomb.
Inside was the corpse of a giant, its hands clasped at its chest, holding a casket.
Evnis pulled out the casket, his fingers clumsy, sweaty as he fumbled with the clasp. Within it was a book, leather-bound, pages of dry parchment. Reverently he lifted it. Beneath the book was a stone, dull, black, yet leaking light. It almost seemed to pulse, like a heartbeat. It was mounted in silver, wrapped within a chain. Evnis touched it and recoiled.
He closed the lid with a snap. ‘We must go,’ he whispered. His guards were peering at the casket.
Suddenly Helfach’s hound growled at the boulders at the foot of the tomb. There was a loud crack as one of them split, a mucous-like substance oozing out of it.
Helfach held his torch closer.
The crack in the boulder lengthened, pieces of it breaking away. The hound barked, jumped forwards, snarling, then backed away from the boulder.
‘That is no boulder,’ Helfach hissed, ‘it’s an egg.’
As he spoke, thick plates of shell broke away, a flat, scaly muzzle poking out, a long reptilian tongue flickering. Then the egg exploded, shell and slime splattering them all.
Helfach’s hound leaped forwards, snarling, then a blur of something, white and sinuous surged about it. There was a hissing, a high-pitched whine, cut short.
Evnis took a step back, eyes fixed in sick fascination on the scene before him.
It was a great, milky-white snake, longer than two men, as wide as a barrel. And it was eating Helfach’s hound, already half of it swallowed. The snake’s body pulsed, rippled and the hound slipped a little further into the snake’s dislocated jaws. One of his spearmen vomited.
‘A white wyrm,’ Evnis whispered. A creature from faery tales, supposedly bred by the giant clans and used as weapons in the War of Treasures. He tore his eyes away, saw more boulders at the foot of the tomb–eggs.
Helfach lunged forwards, stabbing the wyrm with his knife, thrusting his torch into the beast’s head.
The snake convulsed, regurgitating the dead hound. Its tail lashed at Helfach, knocking the huntsman through the door.
One of the spearmen lunged in, raking at the wyrm’s torso. Dark blood welled. The beast sank long fangs into the spearman’s neck and shoulder. He screamed, jerked, but the snake held fast, its coils seething about him.
‘Back!’ Evnis yelled as he staggered for the doorway, clutching the casket tight to his chest.
He helped Helfach slam the door shut, the remaining warrior pointing his spear at the door. There was an impact, door hinges tearing free. Evnis and Helfach braced themselves against it. Another impact sent them staggering, a third and the door splintered apart, the two men flying backwards. The remaining spearman lunged forwards, stabbing blindly into the doorway. His spear sank into something; he fell back as a sound between roar and hiss escaped the snake. It burst through the doorway, tail lashing into the doorframe, cracking it, shards of rock spinning. Then the wall came down, blocking the doorway, a cloud of dust rolling out.
Evnis clambered to his feet, still clutching the casket. He’d dropped his torch, its flame flaring, sending shadows dancing wildly about the cavern. He drew his sword and approached the writhing snake, a spear lodged in its throat. Helfach circled it, still gripping his long knife in one hand, torch in the other.
The beast was wounded, perhaps fatally, clearly in agony. It saw Evnis, and lunged at him, but he danced back, slashed with his sword, leaving a black line on the creature’s muzzle. Helfach darted in, stabbed, then jumped away.
The wyrm weakened quickly, blood and energy leaking away. The other warrior joined them and together they hacked, slashed and stabbed until the creature was dead.
They stood in silence long moments, breathing deep, ragged breaths.
‘Take its head,’ Evnis said.
‘I must see the King,’ Evnis said to one of the two guards standing before Brenin’s chamber. ‘It is urgent.’
He had returned to his hold from the tunnels, ordering the doorway bricked up, in case any more eggs hatched, and then quieted himself away to study his find. The book was magnificent, a gateway to the earth power, and he was brimming with excitement over it. The jewel was more troubling. It was obviously giant-made, and possessed power of some sort, but it scared him. He locked it away for a time when he could give it more consideration.
He had decided that he must see Brenin, before the King rode out for Tenebral. It would be moons before he was back in Ardan.
Evnis’ son, Vonn, had heard the commotion in the basement and seen the wyrm’s head, and had begged to accompany Evnis to Brenin. He had denied him, of course. He loved his son, but he was still too young, still saw the world as black and white, when life in reality was all differing shades of grey. He could not bring Vonn with him to see Brenin, because he had lies to tell, and Vonn would not yet understand.
‘It is before dawn,’ the warrior guarding Brenin’s chamber said, frowning. ‘He will be asleep.’
‘He will wake for this,’ Evnis said, opening the hemp sack he was carrying the wyrm’s head in. The guard slipped into Brenin’s rooms.
Evnis was ushered into an anteroom, and soon Brenin emerged from his bedchamber, bleary-eyed and bare-chested. ‘This better be good,’ he muttered.
Evnis emptied his sack onto a table and Brenin recoiled.
‘It is a white wyrm,’ Evnis said.
Brenin rubbed his eyes and leaned in close.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Helfach came upon it, hunting in the Baglun,’ Evnis said. It would not do for Brenin to know about the tunnels beneath the fortress. ‘It killed a hound and one of my warriors.’
‘This is strange timing,’ Brenin muttered. ‘Aquilus’ message spoke of strange beasts roaming the land…’ He scratched his beard and frowned. ‘I will take this with me to the council. My thanks, Evnis. Helfach, is he well?’
‘Yes my King.’
‘Were there more of them?’
‘He only came across the one, but who can say.’
‘What days are we living in?’ Brenin murmured, ‘the oathstone weeping blood, white wyrms roaming the land again, after two thousand years…’
‘Strange times indeed,’ said Evnis. If only you knew, my King, you would be quaking with fear. ‘My King, there is another matter I wished to speak of with you. As you are leaving…’
‘Go on.’
‘Fain. She is a little better, suddenly. She has asked me to take her home, while she is well enough to do so. I would have your permission to leave Dun Carreg for a while, to take her to Badun. And there is a healer there that I know from childhood. It may do her good.’
‘When?’
‘Soon, my King, within the next ten-night.’
Brenin grimaced. ‘I am sorry, Evnis, I must say no. I am taking Heb to Tenebral with me–he is my loremaster, and, from what I can understand, knowledge of the histories will play a large part in Aquilus’ council. So you must be here, to help Alona in her rule. When I return, of course you may go.’
‘But it is important, vital, that I go soon…’ Evnis trailed off. ‘Please, is there no way?’
‘No. If you are not here Alona will only have Pendathran to advise her. Between her and her younger brother I would be returning to half my barons’ heads on spikes. I am sorry, Evnis. Send for this healer–I will send an escort to speed them here.’
Evnis bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut.
‘There must be a way,’ he said.
‘No. I am sorry for your situation, but these are dark times. More is at stake than a pleasure trip to Badun.’
Pleasure trip. I must get her to the cauldron, somehow. ‘As my King commands,’ Evnis said. As he left the room he brushed a tear from his cheek.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CORBAN
Corban wandered in a grey,
lifeless world. Visions swam before him, wraiths in the mist, made of the mist. He saw the oathstone weeping fat tears of blood, startlingly red; he saw snakes, coiling, writhing, surging, feeding on flesh. Up above, warriors with great feathered wings were fighting with sword and spear against a horde of others, their wings dark, leathery. He saw a tree, its trunk thicker than the keep at Dun Carreg, its roots burrowing deep beneath a never-ending forest.
Then he was sitting by a pool, trailing his fingers in the water. A figure was walking towards him, sword at hip. A man with a close-cropped beard and yellow eyes. He smiled at Corban, sparking a memory.
‘I know you,’ Corban said.
‘Yes. We will be friends, you and I,’ the man said with a smile. He sat beside Corban and threw a stone in the pool, waves rippling out.
‘Such is your life. Impacting many things, people, realms, events.’
‘I don’t understand?’ Corban said.
‘Help me. I need your help. Find the cauldron, bring it to me.’
‘Why?’
‘To avert disaster, more terrible than you can imagine.’ The man fixed Corban with his yellow eyes. ‘The God-War is coming. All will fight, it is only a matter of choosing what side you will fight for.’
‘Are you the All-Father, Elyon?’ Corban breathed, feeling his blood stir at this strange man’s words, his pulse quickening.
‘He is gone from us,’ the man said, shaking his head. Sadness swept his face, infecting Corban with the emotion. ‘But the war goes on. There is a hole in your heart, an empty space. You must fill it with meaning. You need a cause to live for, to fight for, perhaps to die for.’
‘Where am I?’ Corban whispered.
‘Choose me,’ the man said.
‘Who are you?’
‘You know, in here.’ The man poked Corban in his chest, over his heart. Something rippled through him, a shock of power. ‘Time stands still for no one. Make your choice, before it is too late.’
Corban gasped, lurching awake in his bed. It was still dark outside, though he could hear the call of gulls. It will be dawn soon. His dream flitted on the edge of memory. Something about it made him shiver. He dressed quickly and slipped quietly out of the house. The sky was greying with the approaching dawn now, the familiar smell of the stables reaching him. He ran around them, pulling to a halt and leaning against the wooden rail that ringed the paddock behind.
A footfall sounded inside the paddock. He thought he had been alone, but Gar was standing in the deeper shadows behind the stables. His face was slick with sweat, long black hair plastered to his temples and neck.
‘Well, here I am,’ said Corban.
‘So I see.’
‘So, um, what should I do?’
‘Run.’
‘Run?’
‘Aye. Start running around the paddock.’
Corban took a breath to protest, then thought better of it and set off slowly. He did one lap and came to stand by Gar, who was performing some strange movements, almost like a dance, but much slower.
‘What?’ said Gar.
‘I’ve run around the paddock, as you asked.’
‘Again,’ Gar grunted.
‘Again?’
‘Yes, again. I will tell you when to stop.’
Corban sighed, bit his lip and set off. A while later, Corban was unsure how long, Gar raised a hand and called him as he reached the stables. Thankful, he leaned against the paddock rail, sweat dripping from him.
‘How–does–this–stop–me–from–being–scared?’ he asked between ragged breaths.
‘To train the mind you must train the body. Follow me.’ Corban did as he was told, scowling.
Inside the stable, Gar jumped up, caught hold of one of the roof beams and began pulling his chin to the beam, then lowering himself. He did this something between two- and three score times–Corban lost count–then dropped back to the ground.
‘Your turn,’ he said to Corban, who looked dubiously at the beam, jumped up and grabbed it. With a groan he pulled himself up, the muscles in his back stretching and contracting, feeling as if his skin was about to tear. When he lowered himself his grip slipped and he fell to the floor. He stood, dusting himself off.
‘Again,’ said Gar.
‘But I can’t. You saw.’
‘I will help you. Again.’
So Corban tried again, straining to raise himself with very little effect. Just as he was about to give up he felt Gar’s hands grip his ankles, lifting him. He strained again and reached the beam. With Gar’s help he lowered himself in a more controlled fashion, then repeated the process eight or nine more times before Gar allowed him to drop back to the floor, where he stuck his palm in his mouth and tried to pull a splinter with his teeth. Immediately Gar set Corban to another equally painful exercise, and then another. Eventually the stablemaster called a halt.
‘Why am I doing this?’ wheezed Corban, none too happily.
‘As I said, to train the mind you must train the body. Right now this may seem pointless to you, but your body is only a tool, a weapon. One that you must learn to master. Fear is no different from your other emotions–anger, distress, joy, desire–they can all overwhelm you. You must learn to recognize and control them. A strong, disciplined body will help. It is not the whole answer, and today is only the first step. Depending on your progress, we may try putting a blade in your hand, at some point.’
‘When?’ said Corban, brightening.
‘That’ll depend on you. Now, to finish, copy me. This is an exercise about control. Most battles are not won by brute force, no matter what your da tells you.’ Then he set about showing the intricate set of movements that Corban had glimpsed as he had been running around the paddock. It was much harder than it appeared, having to hold still in unusual positions until his muscles trembled.
‘You see, lad, this is about control as well. Your body will do as you tell it,’ Gar said to him with a rare grin. Corban grunted, concentrating too hard to be able to answer.
‘My thanks,’ Corban muttered when Gar declared the session over. ‘Your leg,’ he added with a nod, ‘it did not seem to pain you as much. Is it getting better?’
‘My leg? No. Some days it is a little better than others. Now, be on your way, before these stables get busy. I’ll see you here at sunrise on the morrow.’
Corban walked home, the fortress beginning to come to life around him. His limbs felt heavy, and the morning air felt cool on his body as his sweat dried.
The courtyard that spread wide before Dun Carreg’s great gates thrummed with activity and noise. Four score warriors sat upon horses, Tull, the King’s champion standing before them, holding his horse’s reins. He was clothed in wool and boiled leather, grey-streaked hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck, his longsword strapped to his saddle. Pendathran stood next to him, holding the reins of King Brenin’s roan stallion.
A cheer went up as Brenin strode into their midst, his Queen Alona beside him. The King swung into his saddle and looked around the gathered crowd.
‘I shall return before Midsummer’s Day,’ he cried, raised his hand in salute and nudged his horse into a trot towards the arch of Stonegate. Behind him rode the messenger from Tenebral and Heb the loremaster, whom Corban thought looked decidedly ill-tempered, a frown knitting his bushy eyebrows. Then the warriors lurched into motion. They rode across the bridge to the mainland, the sea crashing against rocks far below. Corban and Cywen stood, watching the column of riders shrink into the distance.
Princess Edana was standing with Queen Alona and Pendathran. She saw Corban with Cywen and called them over. Queen Alona smiled warmly, her eyes lingering on Corban.
‘Cywen works with Gar, mother,’ Edana said. ‘She has a way with horses–you should see her ride.’
‘Anyone who learns from Gar is likely to have a way with horses. Gar has a gift from Elyon, I think,’ said Alona, smiling at Edana. ‘I remember when he first came here. You had only just seen your first
nameday.’
As they walked into the fortress, a figure stepped into view. Evnis, his son Vonn still with him.
‘There is a matter I would discuss with you. A private matter,’ Evnis said to Alona.
Alona frowned.
‘It’s all right,’ her daughter said. ‘I’ll wait here.’
Alona nodded and walked on briskly, Evnis falling in beside her. Pendathran kept pace with them.
Vonn turned and winked at Edana, as he followed his father.
Edana scowled. ‘Look at him: he thinks he’s Elyon’s gift.’
‘Well, he is fine looking,’ said Cywen.
‘What makes it worse,’ Edana continued, choosing to ignore Cywen’s remark, ‘is that he’s got it into his head that he and I will be wed.’
‘Why does he think that?’ asked Cywen.
‘Evnis has been hinting at it for years. Father has never given him a definite answer, but I think they just take it for granted now.’
‘So you don’t want to be bound to him,’ said Corban.
Edana glared at him. ‘No. I am not some slab of meat to be sold at market.’
The group in front of them stopped, Pendathran’s voice raised.
‘No, Evnis. You cannot go,’ they heard the battlechief say.
‘I was under the impression that it’s the Queen of Ardan who makes the decisions whilst the King is away,’ Evnis responded coldly.
‘I am sorry,’ Alona said. ‘Under other circumstances of course, but Pendathran will be leaving on the morrow, and my King has made it most clear to me that he wishes your counsel to be at hand during this time.’ Her face softened. ‘I really am sorry. Tell Fain I shall visit her tonight.’
‘Visit,’ Evnis repeated, a tremor in his voice. ‘This is because of Rhagor, is it not? You still blame me for your brother’s death. Petty vengeance.’
‘What?’ Alona said. ‘No…’
‘Do not mention his name,’ Pendathran growled. ‘Not ever.’
Evnis stood a moment, trembling. He inclined his head, turned swiftly and strode away, Vonn almost running to keep up with him.
A ten-night later, Corban was making his way down to the village, thinking to find Dath, when he saw a rider in the distance, galloping up the giantsway.
