by John Gwynne
‘Conall didn’t like the job,’ Edana said.
Cywen pulled a face. ‘Why the horse count?’
‘Father would have a force ready, for when Dalgar arrives. He will be outnumbered by Owain, and will need help.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘I have been looking for you,’ Nathair said amiably, a broad smile on his face.
‘Have you?’ Brenin murmured, his attention elsewhere, still rubbing the mare’s muzzle.
‘Yes,’ Nathair said, the smile fading from his eyes. ‘For some time, now.’
Brenin looked at him finally. ‘Well, you appear to have found me. Forgive me if I have not been as available as you would have liked. These are unfortunate circumstances.’
Nathair made a dismissive gesture. ‘I am in no danger, I am sure. Owain is bound by the Old Lore, as are we all.’ The Old Lore was a set of customs that the Exiles had brought with them to the Banished Lands and included guest-rights: that a guest was safe at another’s hearth and was due the right of protection by the hold’s lord.
‘Indeed,’ said Brenin.
‘I hoped to speak with Owain, make him aware of my presence here, and perhaps reason with him over this useless war.’
‘Of course,’ Brenin said. ‘He returns to the walls each day. Speak with him then. Though I do not think you will change his mind.’
‘Yes. Thank you,’ Nathair said. ‘I regret this situation you find yourself in, but I cannot remain here indefinitely. I must return to my ship–soon.’
‘As you wish,’ Brenin shrugged. ‘I am sure that Owain would grant you safe passage. Is that what you wished to speak of with me?’
‘In part,’ Nathair said, ‘and of Meical. I have spoken with your councillors on the other matter, regarding the Benothi. They were most helpful.’ Nathair glanced at Evnis, who inclined his head.
‘But I am still most keen to discover why Meical came here, where he may have been going. Anything.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Brenin said. ‘Unfortunately, my time has been in much demand of late. I am sorry, but I have discovered nothing new. As I said before, I know not why Meical came here or where he went.’
Nathair frowned, not so easily put off.
‘There must be something…’ Nathair said. ‘He must have ridden here–an impressive stallion, a huge grey. Was he stabled here?’
He was, Cywen thought, remembering the horse clearly.
‘I don’t work in the stables,’ Brenin snapped.
Nathair frowned. ‘But there must be someone, a stable boy.’ He looked around, suddenly saw Cywen. ‘You there, do you remember the horse I speak of? A dapple grey?’
All eyes suddenly focused on her. ‘I… I remember him–the grey, I mean. He was beautiful.’
Nathair took a step towards her. ‘Did you stable the stallion? Or speak with Meical, its rider?’
‘No, I did not. That was Gar.’
‘Gar?’
‘The stablemaster.’
‘I must speak with him. Where is he?’
Cywen shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘I am sure he knows nothing,’ Brenin interrupted. ‘But I will see that he is questioned, inform you if there is any news of interest.’
Nathair turned back to Brenin. ‘I would rather speak to him myself, particularly as your time is so stretched.’
‘No,’ said Brenin.
Nathair stood silent a moment. His eyes narrowed. ‘I am accustomed to speaking to someone, if that is my inclination, my wish,’ he said coldly.
‘That may well be,’ Brenin said, ‘when you are in your own hall, your own kingdom. But I would remind you that you are a guest here, not king. And in my hall, my kingdom, I will do things as I please. And it does not please me to have others question my people. That is a task I reserve for myself, or those I deem appropriate.’
Sumur shifted, the barest movement of his feet, but suddenly there was a tension in his frame, the threat of violence in the air. ‘That is discourteous,’ he said softly in his guttural accent.
Nathair held a hand up to Sumur, as if to calm him. ‘I have travelled a thousand leagues for this information,’ he eventually said, something dangerous in his voice. ‘I will not be hindered in this.’
Brenin returned his gaze impassively.
‘Maybe you do not fully understand,’ Nathair said. ‘These are momentous times. Times of change. Times where choices must be made. A new order is coming. I shall remember those that help me, and those that hinder me, when my alliance is no longer in its infancy.’
‘Your alliance? I thought it was Aquilus that birthed it?’ Brenin said, raising an eyebrow. ‘You are of a different cast, I think, from your father. And, yes, I understand very well the times we live in. I was at your father’s council. I stood with him. Remember that.
‘Allow me to give you some advice, as you are yet new to your throne. In future, try and have more care in how you choose to speak to a king, especially when he is in his own hall.’
‘Mandros said something similar,’ Nathair murmured.
Brenin scowled at Nathair. ‘Mandros. Know this, Nathair: when my current troubles are resolved I will be calling for an inquiry into Mandros’ death. Kingslaying is not lightly done, and I am unhappy with all that I have heard.’ He at last left the stables, his party following. Evnis lingered a moment, a long glance passing between him and Nathair, then he too was gone.
Nathair turned back to Cywen. ‘Tell this Gar that I would speak with him,’ he said.
Cywen said nothing, and looked at her feet.
Suddenly horns sounded, an urgency in their tone. Nathair and his own companions left, the eagle-guard flashing a smile at Cywen as he went.
Crowds were making their way to Stonegate, where the horns were blowing loudest. Cywen darted ahead, ran up the stairwell and squeezed between warriors to peer over the battlements.
A warband was camped beyond the bridge, five or six hundred swords at least, which Owain deemed enough to contain any strike from within the fortress. The rest of the war-host was camped around the base of the hill, a black mass from this distance that spread throughout Havan and into the meadows round about.
In the distance, to the south, beyond Owain’s host, there was movement on the horizon, a dark smudge moving slowly closer.
Dalgar.
She felt the tension, the hope rippling through those on the wall. Then she remembered Edana’s words–Brenin wanted mounted warriors ready to give aid to Pendathran’s son. She turned and bolted back to the stables, to find Gar organizing the chaos there as countless warriors prepared for battle. Pendathran was shouting a continuous barrage of insults at anyone he considered not moving at their fastest.
She dived in and helped saddle horses, tighten girths, strap spears to harness and a host of other things, until suddenly riders were thundering away towards Stonegate, a cloud of dust rising from their passing.
She did not pause for breath, but made her way straight back to the walls, squeezing through the crush until she had a view of the land below again.
Dalgar’s warband was much closer now, close enough to make out tiny, individual riders, a wave of countless spear-points. Nevertheless, as they drew nearer Cywen was struck by how few they were compared to Owain’s host. The King of Narvon must have emptied his realm to field such a gathering. Dalgar had maybe a quarter of what was arrayed against him. There were thousands within the fortress, evening the numbers, but they had to get across the bridge, which was only wide enough for ten or twelve mounted warriors abreast. And then there was the problem of the horses. Most mounts had been put out to pasture around Havan, as there wasn’t enough room within Dun Carreg’s walls.
Below, Dalgar and his warriors were now charging Owain’s hastily drawn up lines. It was impossible to tell what was happening from such a distance, but Cywen could see the flanks of Owain’s massed warriors curling around the smaller warband, like a huge fist closing.
Corban joined her, s
taring anxiously down at the battle far below. ‘You’re not joining those in the courtyard, then?’ she said to Corban.
‘What? No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Only proven warriors, on Pendathran’s order.’
‘You are proven,’ she said defensively, but then felt relief overwhelm her annoyance. She would not like to see Corban in that.
Pendathran’s voice sounded in the courtyard behind, shouting orders, and the gates creaked open, a flood of horsemen surging through them onto the bridge.
Owain’s warriors were ready for them, a thicket of spears awaiting the horsemen.
There was a great crash as the riders ploughed into this wall of spears, wood splintering, horses screaming, flesh tearing and bodies flung into the air. The end of the bridge became a seething mass of horseflesh, blood and iron.
More of Owain’s warriors were piling up behind the first rows of his spearmen. The bridge itself was crowded with Pendathran’s men, and a bottleneck of the dead and dying formed between the two camps where the bridge met the land.
Cywen saw Pendathran on his great warhorse, plunging and rearing in the mass, the battlechief striking about him with his longsword. He hacked spear shafts in two, severed heads from necks and chopped grasping hands from arms as they reached out to pull him down. Slowly but surely the enemy line gave before him. He ploughed on, becoming the tip of an arrow shape as Ardan’s warriors rallied behind him.
Then a spear sank into the chest of Pendathran’s mount, its scream rising momentarily above the din of battle. It crashed into the ranks about it, red-cloaked warriors surging forwards, and Pendathran disappeared beneath like a man drowning.
A great roar went up from the warriors of Ardan as they tried to hack their way to their battlechief, but all was chaos, the bridge a boiling mass of limbs and leather and iron and blood.
Then Corban pointed–Pendathran was there again, his huge bulk the centre of a maelstrom as he laid about him with his sword. He retreated and sank into the line of his own warriors, and for a while the two forces fought on, men dying on either side, but neither gaining any advantage. Eventually, slowly, step by step, the men of Ardan were pushed backwards across the bridge, back into the shadow of Stonegate. Warriors from above flung rocks and spears at the men of Narvon as they came within range. A gap formed between the two sides as Pendathran and his surviving warriors retreated, and then with a slam the gates closed again.
Cywen ran to the other side of the wall, and looked down into the courtyard to see Pendathran sitting, pale-faced, his head in his hands.
The battle on the plain below still raged, the conflict seething closer to the fortress, as Dalgar desperately tried to cut his way to Dun Carreg.
But they were almost completely encircled, or so it appeared, and as Cywen watched, a shiver went through the battle, reminiscent of an animal in the moment before death. Almost immediately afterwards warriors began to break away from the main press of battle, moving back across the corpse-strewn meadows. At first a trickle of ones and twos, but quickly becoming a steady stream as Dalgar’s warband was finally broken down and put to rout. Those fleeing were hounded by bands of mounted warriors. If any escaped Cywen could not tell.
In time a group of warriors rode up towards the fortress, about a score of them with Owain at their head. His eyes scanned the battlements as he reached the bridge, saw Pendathran up aloft and jeered. He reined in as he reached the carnage of the bridge battle, and warriors behind him pulled forward a horse with a body slumped across its back. Owain heaved it onto the ground and rode away.
Pendathran ordered the gates opened and made his way out across the bridge. Here he paused, but the massed warriors of Narvon made no move, no sound. He bent and lifted the abandoned corpse into his arms and carried the body of Dalgar, his son, back across the bridge.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CORBAN
Corban leaned against the battlement wall skirting the Rowan Field, watching the sinking sun turning the sky to molten copper.
‘A storm’s coming,’ Dath said beside him.
They had both taken their evening meal in the feast-hall, but the mood was dour in there after the previous day’s events; Dalgar’s defeat and death were still too fresh.
‘So,’ Corban said, to distract them both, ‘we are both warriors now.’
‘Aye,’ said Dath, touching his warrior braid. ‘For the most part,’ he added. ‘It doesn’t feel complete, until I sit my Long Night.’
Or sleep through it, like I did through mine, Corban thought. ‘Don’t think Owain will let you ride past his war-host for that.’
‘No,’ Dath agreed. ‘It is a good feeling, eh, passing the warrior trial?’
‘It is that.’
In truth Dath had only just got through his trial: his spear-casting had been good, but his sword-work was hesitant, and how he had not ended up on his backside in the mud during his running mount Corban could not explain.
If bow-craft were part of the trials it would have been another matter. Marrock had already marked Dath as a future huntsman, he and Camlin having taken the youth on long forays into the Baglun. Even now Dath was leaning on an unstrung bow, gifted to him by Marrock and Camlin.
‘What happens now, do you think?’ Dath asked him.
‘I don’t know. Cywen’s been talking to Edana, and it doesn’t sound good. There was much hope resting on Dalgar…’ Corban trailed off. ‘Now that has failed…’ he shrugged, thinking of Pendathran, of his pale, grief-stricken face as he had carried his son from the bridge.
‘Owain will just sit outside the walls, wait for us to run out of food,’ he continued, ‘which, by all accounts, won’t be too long. Too many mouths and no warning of Owain’s coming.’
‘There’s enough warriors here to defeat Owain,’ Dath growled, ‘if only we could get past that bridge. They have us bottled in here like rats in an usque jug. If only there was another way out.’
Corban was silent, remembering the tunnels beneath the fortress. They could forage for food, lead surprise attacks on Owain. But what about the carcass they had found–the wyrm? What if there were more of them? He resolved to talk to Halion about this, suddenly feeling some hope.
‘What about that king?’ Dath said, jolting him from his thoughts.
‘What king?’
‘That Nathair, from Tenebral. I’ve heard he has a warband on his ship.’
Corban scoffed. ‘If he has, it can’t be many. Three score, four score swords? What could that do?
‘Huh,’ Dath said. ‘There’s more’n just warriors on that ship.’
‘Eh?’
Dath glanced down at the ship in the bay, lights winking into existence on it even as they looked.
‘I was tending to Da’s boat, on the beach,’ Dath said. ‘After I saw you riding out for your Long Night.’ He pulled a face.
‘And?’ Corban prompted.
‘And I heard things. Noises. From that ship, strange noises.’
‘What do you mean? What like?’
‘Like a beast. Like nothing I’ve ever heard before,’ Dath went on. ‘I’ve heard Storm growl before, and howl.’ He glanced at the wolven, sitting on one of the giant steps on the stairwell. ‘And that’s enough to give me shivers. But this was worse–much worse.’
Corban chuckled. ‘Dath, you’re the one that told me Brina would steal my soul, remember? And the one that turned white when Craf squawked at you.’
Dath scowled. ‘There’s something on that ship,’ he insisted. ‘Something that’s not human. That Nathair, he could use it to help us.’
‘Even if there was a creature from the Otherworld sitting comfortably on that ship, why would Nathair choose to fight Owain? He is safe, covered by the Lore.’
Strong gusts of wind were sweeping in from the sea, now, swirling up the cliff face and fortress walls, bringing with it the taste of salt and rain. It was almost full-dark, but no stars or moon could be seen above; there were clouds scudding remorselessly towar
ds the fortress, bloated and heavy.
‘Best get off this wall,’ Dath muttered, frowning at the sky as a fat raindrop landed on Corban’s nose. ‘It’s going to be a bad one.’
‘Aye, come on, then,’ Corban said. Dath might have a fanciful imagination, but Corban trusted his friend’s word completely when it came to weather. He picked up his shield and spear–he carried them everywhere since Owain’s attack–and together they half-ran down the stairwell and across the empty Rowan Field, Storm with them.
The feast-hall was emptier than it had been, but still busy, and tucked away in the shadows were his mam and da, sitting with Farrell and his da, Anwarth.
Corban made his way over, Dath following.
‘Hello, Ban, Dath,’ Farrell said.
Corban nodded to the blacksmith’s apprentice, and noticed the newly bound warrior braid in the big lad’s hair too. Look at us, he thought, chuckling to himself, all warriors now.
Corban sat and listened idly to his friends for a while, Dath in the grip of some anecdote as his mind wandered. He leaned back in his chair and looked about the hall. His eyes fell on Evnis and Vonn, having a serious discussion, judging by the frown on Vonn’s face. He had often wondered whether Vonn would fulfil his threat to him. So much had happened since that day in the paddocks, when Shield had killed Helfach’s hound. Others came in for shelter, Tarben and Camlin, wrapped in dripping cloaks. They passed by Corban’s table, both of the men nodding to him and Dath, and made their way to sit with a handful of warriors. Strange, Corban thought, how one act can change so much. Cywen had told him of how the woodsman had defended her, back in the Darkwood, saved her. ‘Truth and courage,’ he whispered to himself. His da was right. Truth and courage did matter, did make a difference.
Footsteps scuffed nearby and a shadow fell over him. Storm growled, a low rumble, and he looked up to see Rafe standing over him, his da behind one shoulder. More warriors from Evnis’ hold were ranged behind them.
‘I call you out, Corban ben Thannon,’ Rafe said, loudly making the formal challenge for a duel.
The murmur of voices that had filled the hall wavered, a quiet spreading out from them in an ever-widening ripple. Halion frowned and said something to Edana. She moved closer to her father and whispered in his ear.
