by John Gwynne
‘My father’s transgressions? What do you mean?’ Kastell growled, feeling his temper rise. This was moving far too quickly. But his da had been mentioned.
Jael frowned, looking at him intently, then laughed. ‘You really don’t know? Well, I do not think that now is the time to talk on that subject.’
Kastell breathed deep. Things were going off track. But his da. What did Jael mean? He blinked hard, shook his head, with an effort recalled the things he had wanted to say. ‘Romar has plans,’ he said. ‘For next year, fighting the Hunen. Those plans involve both of us. For the sake of Isiltir, we must lay our grudges aside.’
Jael clapped gently, slowly. ‘For the sake of Isiltir,’ he chuckled. ‘Isiltir does not need you. My uncle does not need you. He just pities you.’
A rage burned inside Kastell now, flushing his neck and face. He felt his fists bunch. A distant voice in his head whispered that Jael was goading, provoking him, and with an effort of will he forced himself to breathe deeply, to smile, even though it came out more like a grimace.
‘You are a useless, ugly, slow-witted idiot, Kastell,’ Jael continued, smiling broadly now, ‘just like your da.’
Kastell took an involuntary step forward, realized what he was doing, forced himself to stand still. ‘No, Jael,’ he growled. ‘I am no longer a bairn that you can play like a puppet. Pull this string and he will do this, pull that string and he will do that. No more.’ He wiped sweat from his face.
Anger clouded Jael’s eyes, contorted his mouth, just for a moment, then the smile was back.
‘I see. Well, when the puppet does not respond to the master’s will, then the puppet’s strings are cut and it is thrown on the fire.’ Jael took a pace forward and leaned close to Kastell. ‘Make no mistake,’ he whispered, ‘I am the master here. And, I promise you, one day soon, your strings will be cut, and you will burn.’ He paused, sniffed. ‘And, I fear, those close to you will be burned by the same flames.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ said Kastell.
Jael smiled. ‘Work it out, halfwit. You only have one friend. Poor judgement can lead to an early grave, you know.’
He speaks of Maquin.
With a snarl, Kastell found himself lunging forwards. He grabbed Jael and heaved him backwards, throwing him into a stone wall. Jael grunted and then Kastell was on him again, hands around Jael’s throat. There was a roaring sound in his ears, his vision distorted so that he saw Jael as if through a mist, eyes bulging, ineffectually swatting at his arms, but nothing could move him. Distantly he heard shouting, felt a sharp pain in his back, hands pulling at him. Jael’s legs gave way, and his cousin began to sink slowly to the floor, Kastell still squeezing. Somewhere behind him a voice filtered through the red fog.
‘… him go, you’ll kill him, fool, let him go, or die.’
He saw his hands open slowly, releasing Jael, who slumped to the ground, gasping, retching, sucking in deep, ragged breaths. Men rushed forwards, lifting Jael.
Stepping back, Kastell felt the pain in his back again and turned to see Ulfilas with a knife in his hand, the tip, about half a finger long, stained with blood.
What have I done?
Jael pushed his helpers away, standing unsteadily on his own. ‘You…’ he rasped, pointing. ‘This is the end for you.’
Kastell grimaced, turned and stumbled away. Men shouted, reaching for him.
‘No,’ creaked Jael. ‘Let him go. My uncle will deal with him now.’
Kastell thumped on Maquin’s door, trying to control the panic that was bubbling inside him.
He’d checked Maquin’s favoured haunts but there was no sign of his friend.
Eventually he tried Maquin’s cell in his hold, although he knew it was still much earlier than his friend usually liked to retire. He banged on the door again, harder, and heard footsteps. The handle rattled and pulled open, Maquin’s frowning face staring out at him.
‘Asroth’s teeth, lad, what’s wrong with you?’
Kastell threw himself at the old warrior, hugging him tight. Maquin grunted, then Kastell suddenly released him and stepped back, looking at the floor.
‘You’re–alright, then.’
‘Aye, lad,’ said Maquin, his expression hovering between frown and smile. ‘Shouldn’t I be?’
‘I’ve been to see Jael.’
‘Ah. Good. How did it go?’
‘Not well,’ Kastell mumbled. He dragged in a deep breath, stood straighter, meeting Maquin’s eyes. ‘I’m for the Gadrai. If you still wanted to ride with me, I’d be happy.’
Maquin grinned and slapped Kastell’s shoulder. ‘Well done, lad.’ He peered into Kastell’s eyes. ‘No reconciliation with your cousin, then?’
‘No,’ grunted Kastell.
‘I didn’a hold much hope. Still, at least you tried, lad.’ He scratched his chin. ‘So, when do you wish to leave?’
‘Now.’
‘What? But, we’ve things to arrange. What about Romar? You should speak with your uncle, surely.’
‘I already have,’ said Kastell. His uncle had not been happy. Far from it. Kastell would have felt better if Romar had raged at him, but instead he had just looked at him, disappointment writ plainly on his features.
‘Why?’ Romar had asked. ‘Why would you leave, when you know my plans for you?’
Kastell had known that Jael would be pounding on Romar’s door soon, telling him of what Kastell had done in the weapons court, so he had tried to explain. It had come out confused, serving only to harden Romar’s attitude.
In the end his uncle had taken a quill to parchment, sealed it with hot wax, and stamped an imprint of his ring into it. ‘Give this to Vandil. He is lord of the Gadrai, or Orgull, his captain. No one else. Do you understand me, boy?’ Romar had said. Kastell just nodded. Romar had hugged him tight, crushing the air from his lungs, then opened the door and ushered him out.
Maquin frowned. ‘There’s more to this tale than you’re telling.’
‘Aye, there is. Come, I’ll tell you while you pack.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CORBAN
Corban shivered and pulled his cloak tighter about him, waiting for Cywen. He looked up, towards the giantsway as a rider appeared out of the rain, draped in a sodden red cloak. Another messenger from Narvon.
Ever since the day Edana had told them of her father’s plans about Braith and the Darkwood, and of this prophecy, of a war, the giantsway had been thick with messengers.
Time had passed since then, the Reaper’s Moon turning to the Hunter’s and then the Crow’s Moon. The last day of summer was marked by Samhuin, already a ten-night gone. Brenin’s messengers had left soon after Edana had told them of the King’s request, inviting fellow rulers to the stone circle on Midwinter’s Day. Most messengers had returned already. According to Edana, all the kings had assented, even Eremon, the ruler of distant Domhain.
‘All well at Brina’s?’ Cywen said cheerily as she approached.
‘Aye,’ he muttered. He hated the rain: hot, cold, snow, he took in his stride, liking something of all of them, but the rain. ‘Must we do this today?’ he grumbled.
Cywen frowned but did not stop, ducking under the paddock rail. ‘Horse training doesn’t heed the weather, Ban,’ she said, sounding annoyingly like Gar.
‘Huh,’ he said, not entirely agreeing, but following her anyway.
Storm rose silently and padded at his heels. Cywen stopped a score of paces into the field, waiting for them to catch up. She rested a hand on Storm’s neck, sinking her fingers into the wolven’s fur. She did not need to bend to reach Storm now. The wolven could hardly be called a cub any more, so rapidly had she grown–a shade taller than Buddai already, her head level with Corban’s waist. She had lost her puppy fur, her coat coarser, thicker, dark blazes running jaggedly down her torso, looking like claw marks on pale flesh.
‘Here,’ Cywen said to him, holding out a rope halter. ‘Remember, take your time. Are you sure you remember what to
do?’
Corban ignored her. ‘Come, boy,’ he called, clicking his tongue.
‘Isn’t it about time you named him?’ Cywen said quietly.
He ignored her.
His colt was standing beside its mother, taking shelter from the rain under an oak that dominated the centre of the field. He neighed and trotted towards them.
Corban reached into his cloak, pulled out a slice of apple and held it out. Crunching the apple, the colt bent its neck and sniffed Storm’s head. The wolven stood still, not looking at the young horse. Corban chuckled–she’d had a kick a few moons back, when she used to chase everything that moved. The colt had tolerated that, thinking he had a new playmate, but when she started nipping at his heels Storm had received a hoof-shaped warning. Since then she had just ignored the colt.
Slowly, he raised the halter. The colt eyed it suspiciously. Corban had done this many times at the fortress, but this was different. It was his horse’s first time with a halter, and he knew how important it was that he did this right. He gently slipped the halter over its head. The colt jerked back sharply, ears flat, but the job was already done. It danced backwards, startled by the unfamiliar halter rope, which bounced against its flank. The colt broke into a gallop around the field, bucking as it ran.
‘Don’t worry, Ban,’ Cywen said, coming up beside him. ‘That was well done; he’ll come around soon. Be patient.’
They headed back towards the shelter of a small clump of hawthorns, near the paddock rail. Corban heard a call and looked up.
Three riders were on the giantsway. Corban squinted, wiping rain from his face, then the front rider pushed the hood of his cloak back. It was Vonn, Evnis’ son. He spurred his horse off the road and down the steep embankment, cantering to the paddock. His two companions followed.
Corban sighed, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.
Vonn had never made good on his threat in Brina’s cottage to find Corban and teach him a lesson, not after Tull’s words in the Rowan Field that day. No one wanted their head cracked by Brenin’s first-sword. In fact, things had been much better for Corban since then. Even Rafe had confined himself to angry glares and the occasional harsh word.
But they were quite a way from the fortress and village now, with no one around. Corban felt worry stirring deep in his gut.
‘Ho there, wolven-boy,’ Vonn called out, his face stern. He reined in his horse, dismounted and ducked under the paddock rail. His two companions followed. Corban groaned as he recognized them–Helfach and Rafe. The huntsman’s hound, Braen, padded at their heels.
The three of them filed across the paddock, stopping a dozen or so paces away from Corban and Cywen. Storm shifted beside Corban, her weight nudging against his leg.
‘Well, well,’ said Vonn, his expression hard, ‘I have long hoped for an opportunity to talk with you, privately.’ He looked around, emphasizing his point. ‘Elyon must favour me.’
Corban just stared at him.
‘What, nothing to say, now that I am not confined to my bed? I remember you being more vocal, at the healer’s.’
‘What is it that you want?’ Corban said, pronouncing each word slowly, so that his voice would not shake.
‘Want? Now there is a question,’ said Vonn, a grim, humourless smile flickering across his lips. ‘Merely to remind you of our words at the healer’s.’
‘I remember them well enough,’ Corban said.
‘Do not think that I spoke lightly, or in the grip of some fever. I mean to fulfil my promise to you. Even if I have to wait until you have sat your Long Night, and we can speak differently, as warrior to warrior.’
Corban sighed. ‘I had hoped your words came from your fever. I would be happy to lay them aside.’
Vonn laughed, little humour in it. ‘I am sure that you would. But I, however, am not happy to lay them aside.’ He reached down and rubbed his knee. ‘My leg still aches, more in this rain, because of you.’
‘I did not cause your horse to fall upon you,’ Corban said.
‘I remember events differently.’
Corban held a hand up. ‘There is little to be gained in this bickering. King’s Justice has spoken about my wolven, so whether you agree or no, there is naught you can do. Better for all, I think, if we just put the past behind us.’
Helfach snorted. ‘Better for all. Better for you, more like,’ he spat.
Corban sucked in a deep breath, trying to master his emotions. He clasped his hands together and laced his fingers to stop them from trembling.
‘Look at him,’ Helfach continued, a sneer twisting his mouth. ‘He’s scared. He has’na got Tull, or that outlander standing at his back. My son has told me of the boy’s cowardly ways.’ He glowered at Corban. ‘Is that not right, boy?’
‘He thinks he has all the protection he needs,’ Rafe added. ‘His sister is here. She’s well practised in fighting battles for him.’
‘Shut up,’ Cywen snapped. Rafe leered at her.
‘Hush, Cy,’ said Corban. He ignored Rafe, felt the fear inside him start to shift, into something colder. He looked pointedly at Helfach. ‘You left out one of my protectors. You left out my da.’ He met Helfach’s glare with one of his own. ‘Why is that?’
Helfach blinked and looked away, obviously remembering the day in Evnis’ courtyard, when Thannon had confronted him, beaten him unconscious.
His hound, broad-chested and squat, growled, sensing a change in his master.
Storm bared her teeth, a deep rumbling response growing in her chest. Corban laid a hand on her neck, felt her hackles standing on end. He clicked his tongue and the rumbling stopped.
Suddenly Alona’s words returned to his mind, like a bell, sharp and clear. ‘If there is one incident where a subject of mine is harmed by this creature, it will be destroyed.’
He swallowed, fear again spiking within.
‘Cy,’ he said, ‘take Storm away.’
‘What? No. Why?’
‘Just do it. Please.’
She stared at him, puzzled, then nodded and walked away, calling Storm. The wolven did not move, stood motionless beside Corban, muscles tensed.
‘Go,’ said Corban, snapping his fingers and pointing. Storm turned reluctantly, and walked after Cywen.
‘Why have you done that?’ Vonn asked, frowning. Corban ignored him, watching until his sister and Storm reached the oak where the colt’s mother still stood.
‘Answer your betters, boy,’ Helfach grunted.
Corban’s mood changed then, quickly, suddenly. He turned to face them. ‘You say I am different, without my protectors here. Well, what of you? You are different too: aye, bolder. Why is that, huntsman? You are mighty brave, all three of you. Would you be the same, if my da were here, or Tull. Tell me?’ He snorted. ‘And you call me coward.’
‘I only came to tell you there will be a reckoning between us one day, when you are an age to face me,’ Vonn said, angry, but there was something else in his eyes. Shame? Helfach, though, turned slowly purple, eyes bulging, a vein in his neck throbbing.
‘How dare you?’ he snarled. ‘We may be forbidden to touch you, but what can I do about a hound turned wild? Braen.’
The hound growled, baring his teeth.
‘Helfach, what are you—’ Vonn began, but then it was too late. The hound launched itself. Corban let out a strangled cry and turned, tried to run, but the hound crashed into his back, jaws snapping. Corban sprawled forwards, fell to the ground, the hound snarling, caught up in his cloak.
‘No!’ Corban heard someone shout. Vonn? The hound was rolling in his cloak, tearing at it. Cywen yelled his name. As he rolled on the grass and scrambled backwards he glimpsed her running towards him, Storm speeding before her, then the hound was on him, scrabbling up his chest. He grappled with it, digging his fingers into the thick cords of muscle around its neck, but it broke his grip easily and sank its teeth into his arm. He screamed, wrenched away, felt droplets of blood splattering across his face. The hound lunged f
or his throat, jaws gaping, teeth clicking a hairsbreadth from his flesh, hot, fetid breath blasting his face, huge feet pinning him to the ground.
A roaring thunder grew, filling his ears, drowning the frenzied growls coming from the hound. He heard a wild neighing, felt a jarring, bone-crushing impact, a high-pitched whine, then suddenly the weight of the hound was gone.
Hooves thudded down around him, his colt filling his vision, rearing, forelegs lashing out. There was a sickening crunch, then the colt’s feet thumped to the ground. It stood over him, nostrils flaring, hot air shooting out in great cloudy blasts. Then Storm was there, nuzzling him, licking, standing beside the colt, between him and his attackers, crouched, snarling, long teeth bared.
He rolled over, felt Cywen’s arms around him, helping him stand. His arm was throbbing, blood pulsing from his wound in time with his pounding heart, the rain sending it in red rivulets down his sleeve.
Vonn made to approach him, but Storm snapped, snarled, and he stopped.
Helfach was kneeling in the grass, cradling his hound’s head on his lap, Rafe standing behind, frozen, staring.
‘You… you killed him,’ Helfach gasped, tears streaming down his cheeks.
‘No,’ Vonn said. ‘You killed him, Helfach. Come. I will help you carry him.’ He hooked an arm around Helfach as he looked at Corban. ‘I am sorry,’ he said haltingly. ‘Are you—? Your arm. You must go to Brina.’
Corban nodded, numb, and watched the three of them carry the limp corpse of the hound out of the paddock.
‘Ban, your arm,’ Cywen said, hugging him, ripping the hem of her cloak and tying it tight just below his shoulder.
‘What happened?’ Corban mumbled, feeling suddenly sick and dizzy.
‘We tried to reach you, when the hound attacked. But we were too far away, even Storm was not fast enough. Ban, it nearly killed you–could have killed you…’
