by John Gwynne
Corban looked up at Rafe and slowly stood, stepping away from his chair.
‘Stand down, boy,’ Thannon growled at Rafe.
‘I am not a boy,’ Rafe said. ‘I am a man, and this is my right.’
Brenin had returned Rafe’s sword to him, and had done it formally in the Rowan Field, the same day that Dath and Farrell had taken their warrior trials. Every arm that could wield a sword was needed now. So Brenin had said.
‘On what grounds?’ Corban said.
‘On two counts,’ Rafe replied loudly, looking about the room. ‘The first is personal grievance. The second–breaking the word of your King.’
‘What?’ snapped Corban.
Rafe looked pointedly at Storm. ‘That beast was banned from this fortress, forbidden from ever returning, on pain of death. I know it to be true, my da was there when our King spoke it, as were many other witnesses.’ He smiled. ‘Do you deny it?’
‘Things have changed since then.’
‘Do you deny it?’ Rafe repeated, louder. ‘Do you deny that our King spoke those words?’
‘No,’ Corban said, glaring at Rafe.
‘Then let us proceed,’ Rafe said. ‘Let the Court of Swords judge our dispute.’
‘Hold,’ a voice rang out, all turning to see Pendathran standing. ‘You cannot mean to allow this?’ he said to Brenin, the King looking into his cup, swirling its dregs.
Slowly Brenin looked up, and focused with some difficulty on Corban and Rafe. ‘What does it matter?’ he muttered. ‘Proceed.’ He gave an uninterested wave. ‘But only to first blood, not to the death. I have need of every warrior.’ He chuckled to himself, little humour in its tone.
Rafe grinned and gripped his sword hilt, half-drawing it.
At this Storm snarled and leaped forwards, crouching between Corban and Rafe with teeth bared.
‘Storm. Hold,’ Corban cried.
‘You see,’ Rafe blurted, stumbling backwards. ‘This beast is a danger. It should not be here.’ He glanced at Brenin. ‘You see, my King–your judgement was true.’
‘Aye, perhaps,’ Brenin muttered. ‘Let your swords be the judge of it.’
Corban stared at the King, and felt his chest constrict, the implications of Brenin’s words growing clearer. This had become far more serious than a grudge between childhood enemies. If he lost this the judgement would go against him. Storm could be put to death, and Rafe would surely insist upon it.
He tried to control his breathing and his suddenly racing heart.
Pendathran looked between Brenin and Corban. ‘That lad, and his wolven,’ he said, quiet but clear to all. ‘They were of great help. In the Darkwood, in the rescue.’
‘Rescue,’ snorted Brenin. ‘Aye, maybe they were, but Alona is still dead, is she not?’
‘Aye, that is so,’ Pendathran nodded slowly. ‘But your daughter is not. She lives, still, in large part due to their aid.’
The two men glared at each other a moment, then Brenin lowered his gaze and took another sip from his cup. ‘Dead. She is dead,’ he said. ‘Proceed.’
‘What about the wolven?’ Rafe said. ‘Look what it did to me.’ He pulled his linen sleeve up, revealing thick, silvery scars running almost from elbow to wrist.
‘I shall take her out,’ Corban said through gritted teeth.
‘I’ll do it, Ban,’ his mam said.
‘Take Storm and fetch Gar,’ Thannon said quietly, looking at the warriors ranged behind Rafe. ‘We may have need of him.’
Gwenith nodded and clicked her tongue at Storm. The wolven didn’t move, stood twitching her tail at Rafe.
‘Go,’ Corban said, and reluctantly Storm followed Gwenith out of the feast-hall.
‘Watch your step, Ban,’ his da said to him, quietly. Corban did not hear. There was a battle raging inside him: anger, no, fury threatening to consume him, all Rafe’s taunts and insults over the years merging into one injustice.
‘I am surprised you have the stones to step in the ring,’ Helfach said as Corban entered the makeshift circle they had prepared.
‘Be silent,’ Corban said, ‘lest I send for my da, and have him silence you.’
Thannon grinned and patted the head of his war-hammer. Buddai growled.
‘You…’ Helfach spluttered and took a step towards Corban, fists bunching, Rafe and Crain moving with him.
Chairs scraped and suddenly Farrell and Dath were either side of Corban, Thannon towering behind them, and others converging from the hall’s edges–Marrock and Camlin, Evnis and Conall.
‘Enough!’ Pendathran yelled.
Corban was staring into Helfach’s eyes, almost nose to nose with the huntsman, feeling his heart pounding in his ears. The moment seemed balanced on a knife-edge.
Then the doors to the hall creaked open to reveal Nathair with Sumur, Rauca and others of his eagle-guard.
Corban stared at Nathair. The shadow about him was much clearer now. Corban shivered and almost thought he saw talons gripping the King, imagined red eyes smouldering in the shadow’s depths. Something seemed to whisper in Nathair’s ear. The King of Tenebral paused, looked at Corban and smiled, then Evnis called him to his table.
‘I shall not spoil my son’s moment,’ Helfach hissed at Corban. He stepped out of the circle, Crain following him.
‘Get this over with,’ Pendathran growled, and Corban and Rafe moved properly into the circle. Rafe stood half a head taller than Corban, with long, quick limbs, though Corban was broader, and most likely stronger, he hoped.
Corban looked quickly towards the King’s table and his eyes met Halion’s. His old swordsmaster put a finger to his temple and tapped it gently.
Think, Halion was telling him. Anger is the enemy, he repeated to himself, feeling his heartbeat begin to slow. Remember, Storm is at stake here.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, only opening them when he heard the rasp of Rafe drawing his sword, then gripped his own hilt and drew it slowly. He set his feet, raised his sword over his head, high, in a two-handed grip. Waited.
‘Begin,’ Pendathran said.
Corban burst into motion, striking at Rafe’s head once, twice, three times in the blink of an eye. Rafe stumbled backwards, blocking Corban desperately.
Corban spun on his heel, was suddenly inside Rafe’s guard and cracked his elbow into Rafe’s cheek, sending him reeling back into a table. The huntsman’s son lifted his blade as Corban ploughed forwards again, but he was off-balance, one hand trying to push himself off the tabletop, and Corban just slammed his sword into Rafe’s, smashing it from his grip. Then Corban’s blade was at Rafe’s throat.
There was utter silence in the hall, only the crackle of flames from the firepit, and the ragged breaths of the combatants as Corban gazed into Rafe’s eyes, saw fear, confusion and shame there. He flicked his wrist, ever so slightly and a thin line of red appeared on Rafe’s neck.
‘First blood,’ Corban said and stepped back, sheathing his sword. Rafe remained frozen, breathing heavily, a trickle of blood running down his neck.
Corban glanced around, saw admiration in his friends’ faces, satisfaction, and something else… Everyone was staring at him. He caught the eye of Nathair’s guardian, Sumur, who was frowning, a question in his eyes. Then he was looking at the high table, Halion smiling with pride. Pendathran dipped his head.
‘Is this matter at an end?’ Corban said to Brenin, only now realizing that he felt breathless, that his chest was heaving. Suddenly, looking at the King, who still seemed–uninterested, somehow; he felt his earlier anger stirring again.
‘Aye, the matter of your wolven is now decided,’ Brenin slurred, his cup close at hand.
‘It is a shame,’ Corban said, the words gushing out before he could stop them, his anger making him reckless, ‘that a father would think so little of his daughter’s life. Storm and I deserved better than that.’
Brenin scowled, went to stand but staggered and sat down again. Corban’s eyes widened, realizing how far t
he King was into his cups. He turned, and took his place beside his da and friends, feeling the flame of his anger still simmering within.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
KASTELL
Kastell shivered, the sweat of battle drying in this damp, suffocating tunnel.
He had caught up with Maquin, the two of them almost running to keep pace with the bobbing torchlight up ahead that marked Romar.
The sense of relief he had felt when Veradis arrived, turning the battle against the Hunen, was quickly evaporating. It had been replaced by a growing sense of foreboding.
They had been travelling along this tunnel for a while now, ever downward, leaving the light of day far behind. There were four or five score warriors ahead of them, Romar’s honour guard, the rest mostly Gadrai. Orgull’s bald head glistened in the torchlight, only a few strides in front of him, and at least that many warriors were behind, Jael amongst them.
The tunnel they were in was wide and high, its roof hidden in darkness. Torches lined the walls, giving off flickering pools of light, small stretches of near-solid darkness between each one.
Suddenly the warriors ahead were slowing and stopping. Kastell and Maquin carried on, moving closer to the front. At first Kastell thought they had reached a dead end, a wall blocking their way, but it was actually a huge barred doorway. On the ground before it glistened a heaped grey-white mound.
Then it moved.
The body pulsed, great looping coils rippling. A reptilian head rose, displaying huge fangs set in a wide, powerful jaw. The head snapped forwards, ripping the head from a warrior close to Romar. Men yelled, some moving to circle the beast, others stumbling away. Then a great howling filled Kastell’s ears, issuing from the side tunnels, and suddenly giants were pouring out of them, screaming their fury.
Then it was all iron striking iron, screams of pain and the rumbling bellowing of giants. Kastell had a momentary view of axes swirling, tracing arcs through the air in the torchlight, and of bodies slamming into each other. The wyrm was a writhing mass somewhere ahead, head darting, and men hacking at it. But the battle obscured his view. A man flew through the air and careered into him, knocking him to the ground.
An iron-shod boot crunched into the earth a handspan from his face and he scrambled up, seeing a warrior close by smashed to the ground by the giant who had almost trampled him. He swung his blade but he was off-balance and it glanced off the giant’s leather cuirass. In return the Hunen swung his axe, but Kastell managed to turn it with his shield, sliced at the giant’s exposed forearm but hit the iron-strengthened axe haft instead, the blow shivering up his arm. Kastell winced, and shrugged his shield off before the giant could pull him off his feet. He chopped two-handed with his sword at the giant’s arm.
The giant roared, stumbled backwards into the seething mass of battle and disappeared, blood fountaining from its wrist.
Kastell sucked in a few ragged breaths, looking about. The ground was littered with the dead, the battle still raging and the wyrm wreaking havoc further up the tunnel. Behind him Maquin was trading blows with a giant, getting steadily pushed back. Kastell wiped sweat from his eyes and charged silently, swinging his sword, and together they dispatched the threat.
They moved forwards, fighting their way along the tunnel, until the wyrm lay before them, its tail twitching as it died. Giants were still all about. Orgull was fighting as he always did, his feet set wide, trading blow for blow with an axe-wielding giant. He was one of the very few that could, his size and bull-like strength making him almost a giant’s equal. Vandil was virtually his opposite, the smaller, slighter man moving in a blur, his two swords in constant motion.
In the few moments that Kastell watched, the Gadrai’s leader ducked a hammer swing and spun inside the giant’s guard, his swords moving faster than Kastell could follow, then Vandil was spinning away. The giant looked confused, not yet realizing he was dead, as blood spread across his gut and groin.
Then Maquin took a blow to the side, and the old warrior grunted in pain. Before Kastell could check his friend, a Hunen with an axe was trying to take his head from his shoulders. The giant cracked the butt-end of its axe into his head. Kastell wobbled, staggered, his vision blurring–then something was between him and the Hunen and he heard the whistle of iron through air. The giant’s snarl twisted into fear as a red gash opened across his throat. Kastell saw Vandil leaping away from him, a flash of teeth in a grin, then his lord was gone.
He looked to Maquin, and saw the Hunen that he had been fighting was now dead at his feet. There was a bemused look on his friend’s face, his shield arm hanging limp at his side.
‘Vandil…?’ Kastell said, and Maquin nodded.
About them the battle seemed to lull, just for a few moments, and they leaned upon each other. Maquin’s face was white, a sheen of sweat over it.
‘Your arm? You are hurt,’ Kastell said.
Maquin grinned weakly. ‘Not dead yet,’ he muttered.
They were about to step back into the battle when something happened, further back in the tunnel, a ripple running through all that fought, man and giant alike.
Kastell looked back.
Shapes appeared in the torchlight, dark figures swirling towards him, wielding long, curved swords in two-handed grips.
The Jehar, Veradis had called them.
They were systematically cutting through the Hunen, the giants falling before them. Kastell saw Alcyon, the giant, Calidus as well, fighting with surprising ferocity.
In short moments they reached him, and moved on to where Romar and the remnants of his honour guard battled.
And then, suddenly, it was over, the last giant falling to a dozen slashing swords.
Corpses were everywhere, the tunnel’s floor hardly visible. It was difficult to count numbers, but Kastell figured no more than three score of the Gadrai still stood, if that. He shook his head–three hundred had come to Haldis. Romar was talking to Calidus, Alcyon beside them, the black-clad Jehar standing silently, utterly calm, as if they had not just fought a great battle. Kastell was discomfited to see women amongst their ranks. It jarred with all he had been taught, though if he was honest, the memory of how they scythed through the Hunen troubled him most. Women fighting more skilfully than him, than most here, was particularly disturbing.
Romar’s voice rose, the King of Isiltir pushing past Calidus to approach the wide doors. He shouted an order and a dozen of his guard stepped forward and shouldered the bar free.
‘You still live, then,’ a voice whispered in his ear. Jael swept past him, a handful of warriors from Mikil with him.
Romar and his guard were pushing the doors open. They banged into the tunnel walls with a dull boom, then Vandil was calling the Gadrai forward, who settled about Romar protectively.
Calidus lifted a hand and led the Jehar after them.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
EVNIS
Evnis looked about the feast-hall, taking stock. Things were coming to a head. Tonight. And his rage stopped him thinking straight. A clear mind was what he needed, but Gethin’s decapitated head refused to leave his thoughts. Owain would pay, not for killing his brother, but for robbing Evnis of his triumph, of Gethin witnessing his victory. Somehow it felt empty now, and that made him angry. He kept his rage within. Focus, or your head will be rolling, too.
His eyes fell on the boy with the wolven. Corban. Certainly there was something about the boy, arrogant as he was. He could not deny that it had been quite the duel, especially as he knew Helfach’s boy was no idiot with a sword. And Rafe had a couple of years on Corban. A smile twitched his lips as he watched the lad, sitting with Thannon and a few others, laughing at something. They would not be laughing soon.
Nathair had asked him to arrange a meeting with Corban, said he wanted to meet the boy that had tamed a wolven. Evnis had snorted at that. Tame it was not.
His gaze rested on Nathair, reclining in his chair, observing. From the very first, when Tenebral’s young King
had approached him asking for information, he had known. Known that this man was special, had a role to play. And even if his own instincts had not served him so well, still he would have known. The voice had spoken, inside his head. It was not the first time he had heard it, guiding him over the years, but certainly it was the clearest. Serve him. Its command had been unmistakable.
He did not know how Rhin would feel, but she was not his master, whether she thought it or not. Asroth was.
So he had told Nathair about Meical seeing Brenin. That the two had definitely spoken privately, and at great length. Nathair had been grateful, and enraged. He did not shout, there was no outburst, but a coldness had possessed him then. This was not a man Evnis would cross lightly.
It is time, said the voice, a sibilant whisper in his head. He felt a stab of fear, knowing there was no returning from this next step. Do it, the voice snarled.
‘With me,’ he said, Conall and Glyn rising. He looked back once, from the doors. Brenin was still drinking, his head starting to loll. Good. He had been certain the valerian he’d arranged to be slipped into the King’s mead would slow him, but waiting to witness it had been tense. It was a shame Pendathran had not drunk of it as well. Can’t have everything.
He marched into the storm, heading for his hold. His last view of the feast-hall had been Vonn, glaring at him. He sighed. Parenting was difficult. They had argued about the fisher girl, Bethan, again. Vonn had told him that he loved the girl, wanted to be handbound to her. She was pretty enough, all right for Vonn to have some fun with, learn the ways of the world, but handbound? Vonn was destined for much better. Or better-born, at least. That had not gone down very well.
There would be time to smooth things over. After.
Soon they were back through the squall at the hold, Conall opening the door to his tower. He smiled humourlessly at the warrior. It had taken remarkably little to win Conall over. Pride was his weakness. Or one of them. Evnis had only to plant the seed, suggest that Halion was abandoning him for Brenin’s favour, then water it with the King’s very clear disrespect of Conall–a suggestion here, an observation there–and the beast had grown. When he had offered Conall a place in his hold the warrior had been tempted, almost eager, and only a small draw on the earth power had been needed to fan Conall’s jealousy and paranoia.
