by John Gwynne
‘Never fear, lad, your grey’s in good hands here. I am Valyn.’
‘Veradis.’
‘I saw your brother leave. A good man.’
‘That he is,’ Veradis replied, not trusting his voice to say any more.
‘I remember well his stay with us. He was missed when he left, by more than one lass, if I remember right.’ He grinned. ‘I hear you’re to join Nathair’s warband.’
‘Huh,’ Veradis grunted. ‘I am honoured,’ he added, feeling that he should, although right now he just felt very alone.
The stablemaster looked at him for a long moment. ‘I am about to take my evening meal. I often sit on the outer wall. It’s quite a view – care to join me?’
‘Evening meal?’ Veradis said, ‘but . . .’ His stomach suddenly growled.
‘Sundown is not far off, lad. You’ve been in here a fair while.’
Veradis raised an eyebrow, his belly rumbling again. ‘I’d be happy to join you,’ he said.
Valyn led him to the feast-hall, where they quickly filled plates with bread and cheese and slices of hot meat, Valyn grabbing a jug of wine as well. Climbing a stairwell of wide, black steps, they found a spot on the battlement wall.
Jerolin sat upon a gentle hill overlooking a wide plain and lake, fisher-boats dotting its shimmering surface. Veradis looked to the east, following the line of the river as it curled into the distance, searching for a glimpse of Krelis, but he was long gone. To the north and west the peaks of the Agullas jutted, jagged and white-tipped, glowing bright in the light of the sinking sun.
They sat there in silence awhile, watching the sun dip behind the mountains, and then Valyn began to speak, telling tales of Aquilus and the fortress. In return, Veradis told of his home, his father and brothers, and of life in Ripa, the fortress on the bay.
‘Do you have a wife, children?’ Veradis asked suddenly. Valyn was silent a long time.
‘I had a wife and son, once,’ he eventually said. ‘It feels like another lifetime now. They died. The Vin Thalun raided the fortress, many years ago. You have probably heard the tale, though you would have been clinging to your mother’s skirts at the time.’
Veradis coughed. He had never clung to his mother’s skirts; she had died birthing him. He blinked, putting the thought quickly away. ‘I have heard tell of that,’ he said. ‘They were bolder in those days.’
Valyn suddenly jumped to his feet and stared out over the plain below.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Veradis, coming to stand beside him, following the stablemaster’s gaze out over the battlements. Approaching the fortress was a lone horseman, riding a large dapple-grey horse. Veradis could make little out from this distance, other than that the rider’s mount moved with a rare elegance.
Valyn passed a hand over his eyes. He stood there in silence a while, watching the rider draw nearer to the fortress.
‘Do you know him?’ Veradis asked.
‘Aye,’ Valyn muttered. ‘His name is Meical. He is counsellor to our King, and the last time I saw him was the night my wife and son died.’
CHAPTER THREE
CORBAN
‘Oh no,’ muttered Dath as the two boys scrambled to their feet.
A group of lads were watching them. Vonn stood at their head. He was son of Evnis, who was counsellor to the King, and so considered himself of some importance in and around Dun Carreg. He was a few years older than Corban, had recently passed his warrior trial and sat the Long Night, so had passed from boy to man. By all accounts he was an exceptional swordsman.
Another lad stepped forward, tall and blond haired. ‘Well?’ he repeated. ‘What are you doing?’
Not Rafe, thought Corban. Rafe was part of Evnis’ hold, a year or so older than Corban, son of Helfach the huntsman. He was cruel, boastful and someone that Corban made a point of avoiding.
‘Nothing, Rafe,’ said Corban.
‘Didn’t look like nothing to me.’ Rafe took another step closer. ‘Looked like you two were having a good time, rolling in the mud together.’ Some of his companions sniggered. ‘What have you got there?’
‘Practice swords,’ answered Dath. ‘We just saw Tull fight, did you see him . . .?’
Rafe held up his hand. ‘I see him every day in the Rowan Field,’ he said, ‘where real warriors use real swords, not sticks.’
‘We’ll be there soon,’ blurted Corban. ‘My fourteenth nameday is this Eagle Moon, and Dath’s is not long after. Besides, you do use practice swords in the Rowan Field, my da told me . . .’ he trailed off, realizing that all eyes were on him.
‘Tull won’t let you two take the warrior trial,’ Rafe said. ‘Not once he knows you were rutting in the mud together like hogs.’
‘We weren’t “rutting”, we were practising our sword skills,’ said Corban slowly, as if explaining to a child. There was a moment of silence, then the group of lads erupted in laughter.
‘Come on, Rafe,’ said Vonn when they had all recovered, ‘the stone-throwing starts at high-sun and I want to see it.’
Rafe looked at Corban and Dath. ‘I’m not finished with these two yet.’
‘They’re just bairns, I’d rather spend my time in other company,’ Vonn said, pulling Rafe’s arm.
‘C’mon, Dath,’ Corban whispered, turning and walking quickly away. ‘Come on,’ he repeated with a hiss. Dath stood there a moment, then snatched up his leather bag and followed.
They walked in a straight line, their route taking them out of the meadow towards the village, trying to put as much distance between themselves and Rafe as possible.
‘Are they following?’ muttered Corban.
‘Don’t think so,’ replied Dath, but moments later they heard the thud of running feet. Rafe sped past them and pulled up in front of Corban.
‘You didn’t ask permission to leave,’ he said, jabbing a finger in Corban’s chest.
Corban took a deep breath, his heart beginning to pulse in his ears. He looked up at Rafe, who was a head taller and considerably broader than him. ‘Leave us alone Rafe. Please. It’s the Spring Fair.’
‘Don’t you have anything better to do?’ added Dath.
‘Leave us alone,’ mimicked Crain, who accompanied Rafe. Vonn and the others were nowhere to be seen. ‘Listen to him. Don’t let him talk to you like that, Rafe.’
‘Shut up, Crain,’ said Rafe. ‘I think these bairns need a lesson in courtesy.’ He grabbed Corban’s arm and half steered, half pulled him towards the first buildings of the village. Frantically Corban looked around, but they were quite a distance from the crowds now, and he saw Dath had been grabbed by Crain and was being herded along after him.
Within seconds the two boys were bustled behind a building, Corban thrown against a wall, knocking the wind out of him. His fingers went limp and he dropped his wooden practice sword.
Rafe slammed a fist into Corban’s stomach, doubling him over. Slowly he straightened.
‘Come on, blacksmith’s boy,’ snarled Rafe, fists raised. Corban just looked at him. He wanted to answer, wanted to raise his fists, but just – didn’t. His guts churned with a cold weightlessness. When he tried to speak, only a croak came out. He retched, feeling sick, and shook his head.
Rafe hit him again and he staggered, blood spurting from his lip. Fight back! a voice screamed in his head, but he only reached out an arm, steadied himself against the wall, feeling weak, scared. He looked at Dath, saw his friend launch himself forwards, punching and kicking, but Crain was older, stronger and Dath was small-framed even for his age. Crain clubbed him to the ground.
‘Nothing like your da, are you,’ spat Rafe.
Corban wiped blood from his lip. ‘What?’ he mumbled.
‘Your da would put up a fight, make it more interesting. You’re just a coward.’
For the briefest moment Corban felt something hot flicker within him, a spark of fire deep in the pit of his stomach, like when his da opened the door to his forge and the flames flared. He felt his fists clench
and arms begin to rise, but then Rafe’s fist slammed into his jaw and the sensation disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Then he was falling, crashing to the ground with a thud.
‘Get up,’ jeered Rafe, but Corban just lay there, hoping it would all end soon, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.
Rafe kicked Corban in the ribs, then a voice shouted. A figure rounded the building and was moving quickly towards them.
‘I think I’ll have this,’ said Rafe, grinning fiercely as he bent and picked up Corban’s practice sword. Then he was running, his companion following quickly down an alley.
Dath knelt by Corban, trying to help him rise as the man who had shouted reached them. It was Gar.
‘What happened here?’ the stablemaster demanded as Corban pushed himself to his knees. He spat blood and stood, swaying slightly.
Dath reached out to steady his friend but Corban pushed his arm away. ‘Leave me alone,’ he whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks, smearing dust and blood. ‘Leave me alone,’ he said again, louder this time, turning away and rubbing furiously at his eyes, shame and anger filling him in equal measure.
‘Walk with me, boy,’ said Gar, and turned to Dath. ‘Best leave us for a while, lad.’
‘But he’s my friend,’ protested Dath.
‘Aye, but I would speak to Corban. Alone.’ He gave a look that sent Dath walking hesitantly away, though he looked back over his shoulder.
Corban turned quickly and strode in the other direction, not wanting anyone’s company, but in moments the stablemaster was walking beside him. For a while they walked in silence, Corban feeling too ashamed to talk, so he concentrated on controlling his rapid breathing. Slowly the sound of his blood pounding in his head quietened.
‘What happened back there?’ asked Gar eventually. Corban did not answer, not trusting his voice to remain steady. After another long silence Gar pulled him to a halt and turned him so that they were facing each other.
‘What happened?’ Gar repeated.
‘You trying to shame me even more, making me say it?’ snapped Corban. ‘You saw what happened. Rafe hit me and I – I did nothing.’
Gar pursed his lips. ‘He’s older, and bigger than you. You were intimidated.’
Corban snorted. ‘Even Dath fought. Would you have let someone hit you like that?’ When Gar did not answer, he tried to walk away, but the stablemaster gripped Corban’s shoulder, holding him still.
‘What caused the argument?’
Corban shrugged. ‘He needs little reason to hit people younger or smaller than he is.’
‘Huh,’ Gar grunted. ‘Did you want to hit him back?’
‘Of course,’ snorted Corban.
‘So why didn’t you?’
Corban looked at the ground. ‘Because I was scared. I wanted to fight back, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I tried; it was as if my arms had turned to stone, my feet stuck in one of Baglun’s bogs.’
Gar nodded slowly. ‘We all fear, Ban. Even Tull. It’s what we do about it – that’s the important thing. That’s what’ll make you the man you grow into. You must learn to control your emotions, boy. Those that don’t do that often end up dead: anger, fear, pride, whatever. If your emotions control you, sooner or later you’re a dead man.’
Corban looked up at him, his throbbing lip fading for a moment. He had never heard Gar say so many words strung together.
The stablemaster leaned forward and poked Corban in the chest. ‘Learn to control them and they can be a tool that makes you stronger.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Corban mumbled. ‘How?’
Gar looked at Corban a long while. ‘I will teach you if you wish,’ he said quietly.
Corban raised an eyebrow. Gar never trained in the Rowan Field or rode with a warband on account of an old leg wound – he’d walked with a limp as long as Corban could remember – so what the stablemaster could teach him, he didn’t know.
‘What?’ said Gar. ‘A wounded leg does not mean I’ve forgotten what it’s like to wield a sword, or to face a man in battle.’
Wield a sword. ‘All right,’ Corban shrugged. ‘Though Da is teaching me my weapons until I’m old enough for the Field.’
Gar snorted. ‘There is much Thannon can teach you, but how to hold your temper is not one of them.’
Corban smiled. His da was not well known for his patience.
‘We’ll keep it between us, for now,’ Gar said.
‘What, can’t I tell Cywen?’
‘Especially not Cywen.’ A rare smile touched the edges of Gar’s mouth. ‘She would not leave me alone. Gar, teach me this, Gar, teach me that,’ he mimicked. ‘No, she keeps me busy enough with the horses.’
Corban chuckled. Gar held out his arm and Corban gripped it.
‘Good. So,’ said Gar, ‘are you going to come back to the fair?’
‘Not yet.’ He looked past Gar at the milling crowds.
‘You’ll have to face them sooner or later, and the longer you leave it the harder it will be, like falling off a horse. And your friend will be worried.’
‘I know. I’ll come back after, just not right now. I think I’ll go and see Dylan.’
Gar nodded. ‘It’s a long walk to Darol’s hold. Let’s get you cleaned up and Willow saddled, that way you’ll be back by sunset for the end of the handbinding.’
Corban fell in silently and they made their way into the streets of Havan. Everywhere was deserted, the lure of the fair having emptied the village. Corban looked up, saw Dun Carreg high above, but even the fortress seemed still and empty. No one moved on the walls or around the great arch of Stonegate, looming above the only entrance into Dun Carreg.
They reached the stable and soon Corban was sitting on top of a solid bay pony, his face stinging after washing in the water barrel.
‘Hold one moment,’ said Gar and disappeared inside the stable. He soon returned with a leather saddlebag. ‘Just a few bits: some bread, cheese, a blanket, some rope. Always be prepared,’ he added in response to Corban’s quizzical look. ‘You never know what’s going to happen.’
Corban smiled ruefully, touching his cut lip. ‘That you don’t.’
‘Remember, back by sunset. Look after Willow and he’ll look after you. And stay away from the Baglun. There’s been talk of wolven being seen.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Corban. He didn’t believe that. The only time wolven had ventured to the forest’s fringes was in winter, tempted by the smell of horseflesh in Dun Carreg’s paddocks. And that was only rare, when the Tempest Moon had come and snow was drifting deep. They preferred deep forest to open spaces.
Soon Corban was clear of Havan and riding on the road that led to the Baglun Forest. The giantsway, all called it, as the vanquished Benothi had made it, the giant clan that had ruled here long ago, before men had taken the land from them. It cut a line through Ardan and Narvon, though there was less traffic between the two realms than there had once been. So now the road was overgrown with grass and moss, its raised banks crumbling. In the distance Corban could see the small hill that Dylan’s home was built upon, the river Tarin glistening behind it in the midday sun, and further in the distance the dark smear of Baglun Forest filled the horizon.
The day had grown hot, the breeze off the sea only a faint caress. Tentatively, Corban touched his lip, which was throbbing painfully. His head hurt and his ribs were aching where Rafe had kicked him. He sighed: where had the day gone so wrong?
Rafe’s face came back unbidden, his smirk as he had taken the practice sword and run from Gar. Corban’s neck flushed as he felt the shame of it all over again. Maybe I am a coward. I wish I was like my da, strong and fearless. What had Gar meant about controlling his emotions? How could you be taught to do that? Whatever it was, if it helped him teach Rafe a lesson, then he was willing to give it a try. As far back as Corban could remember, Gar had always been around, was a close friend of his mam and da’s. In truth he was a little scared of the man; he always seemed to be
so stern, so serious. But he was intrigued by Gar’s offer of help.
Slowly a noise filtered through his thoughts and he looked up. In the distance he saw a large wain coming towards him, two figures driving, others walking and running beside it.
‘Dylan.’ Willow’s steady pace had eaten up much of the journey, the rocky grassland around Havan giving way to fertile meadows as he drew nearer to the river. Yellow gorse had been replaced by juniper and hawthorn, and Darol’s hold loomed large before him.
Darol, Dylan’s da, was sitting in the front of a heavy-laden wain, driving a dun pony, his wife next to him. Dylan was walking one side of the wain and his sister and her husband striding along behind, their son Frith running circles around them. Corban smiled at the sight. He had seen too little of them over the winter; his mam hadn’t let him travel much past Havan during the season of storms, her fears fuelled by tales of hungry wolven. But the summer before he had spent more of his time out here, mostly in the company of Dylan. They had argued the first time they had met, Corban defending his sister over something she had said. Somehow it had ended in laughter, and soon after Corban and Dylan had become firm friends, even though Dylan was a few years older.
Dylan worked hard for his da, but when Corban visited, Dylan more often than not made time for him, quickly showing him the tasks of the farm, digging holes for fence posts, planting and reaping their crops, catching salmon, a host of other things. More interesting to Corban, though, had been being shown how to use a sling, how to recognize different animal tracks, and how to hunt, skin and cook hare. Most exciting of all were the short forays into the fringes of the Baglun Forest. The forest seemed to be a different world, sometimes unnerving, but always alluring. He looked at the Baglun now, its vast sweep disappearing into the distance. A larger forest he could not imagine, not even the fabled forest of Forn, far to the east, said to be bigger than half the realms of the Banished Lands put together. He snorted, remembering his trips with Dylan into the Baglun. Towards the end of last summer, when Dylan had been busy from dusk till dawn with harvest, Corban had taken to entering the forest alone, had felt proud when he had confided in Dath and invited his friend to join him. Dath made the sign against evil, turned pale and told him he was either very brave or more likely mad. Truth be told, it was nothing to do with bravery, which he was distinctly lacking if his encounter with Rafe was anything to go by. He just liked it in the forest, although the thought of his mam finding out made him shiver even in the warmth of the sun.
