by John Gwynne
He turned and made his way to the practice court. The fortress was crowded now, full with the Banished Land’s warriors, most looking to prove themselves on the weapons court, to earn a reputation beyond their own realms.
Veradis was still surprised at how different so many of them looked. The local warriors were all easy to pick out, in their hobnailed sandals, tunics, leather kilts and close-cropped hair. Most of the newcomers wore boots and breeches, coming from colder lands most likely, many with long hair and beards to match. Others were dressed in loose-fitting clothes. There were variations in the colour of their skin, some as pale as morning sky, others weathered as old teak, and all the tones in between. No matter how different they appeared, though, there was one thing that bound them. Whether their hair was close-cropped like Veradis’, or long and wild, or neatly groomed and bound, all wore the warrior braid.
Rauca was sparring, showing off the strength of Prince Nathair’s band. His opponent, stripped to the waist, wearing checked breeches, was taller and broader, thick-corded muscles rippling as he fought, but Veradis was not concerned for his friend; the person he was facing had grey-streaked hair. Big and old meant slow.
They’d obviously been sparring for a while, both covered in a sheen of sweat. Rauca circled, forcing the older man to pivot to protect his shield side, then Rauca darted in, lunging at his opponent’s chest. At the last moment, as his opponent’s weapon was whistling to block the blow, Rauca shifted his weight, spinning around to bring his sword arcing at his now off-balance opponent’s neck. It was a perfect manoeuvre, feint and strike, except that his opponent was no longer where he was supposed to be. Somehow he had read the feint, and instead of trying to right himself he used his momentum to step forwards, avoiding the intended blow and regaining his balance at the same time. Now it was Rauca on unsteady feet, and a moment later his adversary’s sword swatted his wrist, making him drop his weapon.
His opponent laughed, deep and loud, and slapped Rauca on the back. With a rueful smile the younger man picked up his weapon and the two left the court together, allowing two more warriors waiting on the courtyard edge to take their place.
Veradis met his friend as the older warrior whispered in Rauca’s ear, then wrapped a grey cloak around his shoulders and strode off, the crowd parting for him.
Veradis smiled at his friend. ‘You should have won.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Rauca muttered with a shrug.
‘What did he say to you?’ Veradis asked.
Rauca pulled a sour face. ‘He said “There’s no point getting old if you don’t get cunning.” ’
Veradis chuckled. ‘He’s right enough. Who was he?’
‘Said his name was Tull. He came here with the shieldmen of Ardan.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘You really need to start looking at maps, Veradis. You won’t make a very good battlechief if you don’t know where you’re marching your warband to.’
‘That’s what you are for,’ Veradis said and chuckled.
Laughter called their attention back to the practice court, where a tall, dark-haired man was standing over another figure.
The one on the ground tried to rise but the dark-haired man lashed out with his practice sword and knocked an arm away, sent him tumbling back to the floor. An older warrior made to enter the practice square, more grey streaking his hair than black, but he was restrained by other warriors.
The man on the floor rolled away and rose to his feet. Veradis saw he was a thickset youth, wide shouldered but also wide at the waist. He pushed a hand through a shock of unruly red hair as he bent and retrieved his practice sword.
The dark-haired warrior raised his sword, smiling. The redhaired man suddenly lunged forwards, surprisingly fast. He rained a flurry of blows against his opponent, causing the warrior to step backwards, although he blocked every blow easily, the smile never leaving his lips.
They fight well, Veradis thought. Then the dark warrior blocked another lunge, twisting his wrist so that his opponent’s weapon was sent spinning, raised his sword for an overhead strike.
It never landed.
The red-haired warrior stepped forwards, bringing his knee up hard into the other’s groin. With a groan he sank to the ground and lay there in a curled ball. The red-haired man stood over him a moment, then stomped out of the practice court. A handful of warriors ran over to the felled man and helped him to his feet.
A hand gripped Veradis’ shoulder and he turned to see Nathair smiling at him. The Prince signalled for Veradis and Rauca to follow him. ‘The council will begin tomorrow, the last king has arrived. Come and see.’ He turned and marched quickly towards the stables, Veradis and Rauca trotting to catch him.
Nathair stopped just before the stables, staring at two men dismounting. Veradis almost laughed when he saw their mounts, more like ponies than horses, small and shaggy-haired; then he saw their riders and his smile vanished.
They were both short and lean, wearing loose-fitting breeches and only a sash thrown diagonally across their torsos, but it was their faces that drew Veradis’ eyes. Their heads were shaven clean, apart from a single thick braid of dark hair, small black eyes glowering from beneath jutting brows. A latticework of crisscrossing scars covered the entirety of their clean-shaven faces, heads and upper bodies.
‘Close your mouth,’ Nathair said, nudging Veradis.
‘Who are they?’ he whispered.
‘Sirak,’ Nathair replied, ‘from the sea of grass.’ Veradis nodded, remembering tales his nursemaid had told him in his childhood, of betrayal and bitter rivalries between the horse-lords and the giants.
‘Tomorrow should be very interesting,’ he said to Nathair and Rauca.
Veradis looked around the feast-hall, stripped now of its rows of benches, the firepit boarded over. He was standing a little behind Nathair, who was seated at a massive table of oak that stretched almost the entire length of the room. Over a score of kings or barons had come, each with at least one person accompanying them–a counsellor, a champion or both–and over four score were seated around the great table.
Nathair was sitting beside Aquilus, a thin circlet of gold about the King’s head. Seated on the other side of Aquilus was Meical, his counsellor, jet-black hair braided and clasped at his neck with silver wire. He studied all who came into the room. Veradis’ eyes were continually drawn back to the man. He was tall, even sitting that was clear to see–possibly taller that Krelis, who was the largest man that Veradis had ever seen–and close up it was apparent that this man was no stranger to combat. Part of his left ear was missing, four clean scars running from his hairline to his chin, looking like claw marks. And his arms were strewn with more silvery scars. Even his knuckles were ridged, knobbly, looking as if he’d spent his life in the pugil-ring.
A woman swept in, aged but straight-backed, white hair flowing across a checked cloak of black and gold, a thin band of silver around her neck. She was not the only one in the room to wear a crown around her neck, while others wore them as rings about their arms.
Behind her paced a slim man, young, a swaggering confidence in his walk. His gaze swept the room, cold and arrogant as a hawk.
Surely her first-sword, Veradis thought. Watch that one.
The slim warrior pulled out a chair for the lady, who sat with a smile, filling the last chair at the table.
A hush fell over the room as Aquilus stood.
‘People of the Banished Lands, whether you be king, or baron come to speak for your king, welcome to my hall.’ He went on to welcome each person individually, the tide of strange names and places soon flowing over Veradis’ head, with only a few standing out in his mind. Brenin, Lord of Ardan, because the old warrior who had bested Rauca stood behind him, and also Romar, the King of Isiltir. Two men attended him, one sitting either side–the two from the sparring court yesterday, he recognized. The red-haired one was named Kastell, the dark-haired, Jael.
Other names rang out and the
lady who had entered the hall last was named as Rhin, Queen of Cambren.
‘This is a momentous occasion,’ Aquilus said. ‘One that has not happened since our ancestors first set foot upon these shores, since Sokar was named high king. I am honoured that so many of you have remembered your ancestors’ oaths and come.’
‘It was hard to resist,’ said Mandros, King of Carnutan, ‘though a long way to come for such cryptic hints–dark times, a new age, signs and portents–I for one am intrigued. What is this all about, Aquilus?’
A silence fell. Nathair tapped his fingers quietly on the smoothed oak of the table.
‘War is coming,’ Aquilus said. ‘An enemy that would conquer the Banished Lands, destroy us all.’
‘Who?’ a fat, red-haired man shouted out. Braster, King of Helveth.
‘Asroth,’ Aquilus said. ‘The God-War is coming. Asroth and Elyon will make the Banished Lands their battleground.’
Silence. Motes of golden dust danced in the sunshine that washed through the tall windows.
Someone laughed: Mandros. ‘You cannot be serious,’ the King of Carnutan said. ‘I have ridden a hundred leagues for this: fireside tales my mam told to make me stay in bed at night.’
Do not trust him, a voice murmured in Veradis’ head.
‘There have been signs,’ Aquilus said. ‘I know you will have seen them. I do not believe my kingdom is the only one to have experienced these things.’
‘What things?’ Mandros snorted.
‘The giants, attacking in force for the first time in generations. Lawless men multiplying, raiding, killing. Creatures, beasts prowling the dark places, bolder than ever before. And worse. The giant-stones, weeping blood. Tell me you have not heard these things.’
‘Tales for campfires,’ Mandros said.
‘I have heard these things,’ another man said, a gold torc around his neck. Brenin of Ardan. ‘There are giant-stones in my realm. I have been told of blood flowing from them, like tears, seen by men I trust.’
‘The giants have become a plague on my borders,’ someone else spoke, a broad-shouldered man, Romar of Isiltir, Veradis thought. ‘On my journey here I was forced to battle against the Hunen, raiding out of Forn Forest. They have stolen a great relic from me, an axe. One of the seven Treasures of old. And what you say about beasts–draigs have been seen prowling my hills for the first time in generations.’
‘Dark tales are told in my court,’ Braster said, tugging at his red beard. ‘As you say, of giants and draigs and worse. I have had reports, sightings of white wyrms on my borders, in the mountains, and in the fringes of Forn Forest.’
Mandros shook his head with contempt. ‘The white wyrms are straight out of our storybooks. They do not exist.’
‘Yes they do,’ Benin said, gesturing to his first-sword. The old warrior stood, heaved a sack up and emptied it onto the table. A head rolled out, as big as a war-shield. It was reptilian, with long fangs and blood red eyes, the flesh around its neck torn and stinking. Its scales were flaking, decaying, but it was clear to all that in life they must have been a milky-white.
Gasps were heard around the table.
‘There has been no record of the white wyrms since the Scourging,’ Aquilus said. ‘The tales tell that they were bred by the giants, used in the War of Treasures.’
‘You all forget one thing,’ a new voice added, Rhin, Queen of Cambren. ‘All this talk of a God-War. For that to happen there must be gods. Elyon has turned his back on us, on all things: men, giants, the beasts of the earth, on all his creation. That is, if our loremasters speak the truth. It takes at least two sides for a battle. Elyon is the absent god. He is gone. So there can be no God-War.’
‘There will be a war.’ For the first time Meical spoke, Aquilus’ counsellor. His voice was clipped, precise, controlled. ‘Asroth seeks to destroy all that Elyon created. He seeks to destroy you. Every one of you. Elyon’s presence is not required for that. And you will either die meekly, fooled by him, or you will resist, fight back.’ He stared at Rhin.
‘A king may be absent and yet those faithful to him will still do battle for him,’ Aquilus added. ‘And Elyon will not be absent always. If our loremasters speak the truth.’
Rhin smiled and dipped her head to Aquilus, as if acknowledging a touch on the sparring court. Her gaze drifted to Meical, the smile fading.
‘Even if these things are happening, which is debatable,’ Mandros said, ‘why conclude they are the forerunners of this God-War?’ His lips twisted. ‘We are not superstitious children, surely. Bad things happen sometimes, that is the way of the world. Why call them signs?’
‘Because of this,’ Aquilus said, gesturing to Meical.
The counsellor pulled a book from his cloak, thick and leather-bound. ‘I found this in Drassil,’ he said. ‘It was written by Halvor, the giant, during the Scourging.’
‘Hah,’ Mandros burst, slapping the table, ‘you go too far now. A book over a thousand years old. Drassil, an imaginary city. Aquilus, please, you insult us.’
Veradis looked around the table. Heads were nodding in agreement with the King of Carnutan, but there were also many that were silent, even scared. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. His head was whirling with all this talk of gods and wars and signs.
‘Once I thought as you do,’ Aquilus said to Mandros. ‘I have had cause to rethink. Please, all of you, listen now, judge after.’
Mandros pulled a sour face and leaned back in his chair.
Meical opened the leather cover. ‘This was written by Halvor during the Scourging,’ he said. ‘It gives an account of our oldest histories: the starstone, the death of Skald, the first giant king, and the following War of Treasures, ending in Elyon’s wrath. That part is lucidly written, but spread amongst it, scattered, is other writing, different. It could almost have been scribed by another’s hand. But the lettering is the same.’
‘Read to them, Meical. Of the avatars.’
Meical turned pages, the parchment creaking. He paused, finger tracing the script. ‘Here is the first part. War eternal between the Faithful and the Fallen, infinite wrath come to the world of men. Lightbearer seeking flesh from the cauldron, to break his chains and wage the war again.’
Mandros snorted. ‘Tales we are told on our mother’s knee,’ he muttered again.
Meical seemed oblivious, engrossed in the book. ‘Two born of blood, dust and ashes shall champion the Choices, the Darkness and Light.’ He paused, turned more pages. ‘This is not written clear to see, you understand,’ he murmured as he searched through the book. ‘This script is almost hidden, spread from beginning to end. It has taken me moons to work just a little part out. Ah, here is more. Black Sun will drown the earth in bloodshed, Bright Star with the Treasures must unite.’ Again he stopped, carefully turned more pages, eventually continued his halting reading: ‘By their names you shall know them–Kin-Slayer, Kin-Avenger, Giant-Friend, Draig-Rider, Dark Power ’gainst Lightbringer.’ And so he went on: read, pause, search. Read again. ‘One shall be the Tide, one the Rock in the swirling sea. Before one, storm and shield shall stand; before the other, True-Heart and Black-Heart. Beside one rides the Beloved, beside the other, the Avenging Hand. Behind one, the Sons of the Mighty, the fair Ben-Elim, gathered ’neath the Great Tree. Behind the other, the Unholy, dread Kadoshim, who seek to cross the bridge, force the world to bended knee.’
After this there was a heavy silence, broken by Braster. ‘That doesn’t sound good,’ he muttered.
‘There is more,’ Aquilus said, and Meical read on.
‘Look for them when the high king calls, when the shadow warriors ride forth, when white-walled Telassar is emptied, when the book is found in the north. When the white wyrms spread from their nest, when the Firstborn take back what was lost, and the Treasures stir from their rest. Both earth and sky shall cry warning, shall herald this War of Sorrows. Tears of blood spilt from the earth’s bones, and at Midwinter’s height bright day shall become full night
.’
No one spoke. Tears of blood, thought Veradis. Surely the weeping stones… Until that point, Meical’s reading had reminded Veradis most of old folktales, but those last words had hit him hard. How could that have been written generations ago? He suddenly felt a cold ness spreading within him, like a fist clenching about his heart.
‘This is madness,’ Mandros declared. ‘I will listen to these faery tales no longer.’ His chair scraped as he stood and marched from the room, a younger man trailing him, his son.
‘What does all of that mean?’ Braster said. ‘Most of it sounded like riddles to me.’
‘That is why I have called you all here,’ Aquilus said. ‘To discuss the meaning of these words, and to decide on a way forward.’
With that they set about debating the meaning of what Meical had read, its reliability, what to do if it was true, back and forth, back and forth until Veradis’ head was spinning. Highsun’s bell came and went, the table filled with food and then cleared, wine cups filled and refilled. The light was dimming, wall sconces were being lit when Braster spoke up.
‘So what would you have us do? We cannot march against an enemy that we cannot see. I know there has been much talk today of this Black Sun, Asroth’s champion, but where is he? Who is he?’
‘I do not know,’ Aquilus said. ‘But I propose this. That we agree to aid each other against our enemies, whether they be lawless men, corsairs, giants, or a horde of wyrms and twisted beasts from out of Forn. And that we also agree, when this Black Sun does reveal himself, that we unite and fight against him together.’
‘And who would lead us?’ Rhin asked. ‘You?’
Aquilus shrugged. ‘The Bright Star, when he steps forward.’
‘Or she,’ Rhin said.
Aquilus smiled. ‘Until the Bright Star is revealed to us, whomever we choose shall lead us. I am high king, but I will not stand in the way of this alliance. Maybe there will be a clear choice, when a leader is needed.’
