by John Gwynne
‘Before you served Lykos. What did you do then?’
‘Ah, Prince’s man, that is a tale for another time.’
‘If you know so much,’ Nathair said, ‘perhaps you can tell me who Asroth’s avatar will be. The Black Sun.’
Calidus grimaced. ‘I wish I could. Asroth is cunning, first and foremost, the old tales say. It is a question I have long pondered.’ He shrugged. ‘We should look to any that oppose you, that oppose your father’s alliance. That would be the obvious starting point, though I think the Black Sun would not reveal himself at this point, not unless he could strike a decisive blow. But perhaps his servants . . .’
‘Mandros,’ Nathair whispered. ‘He has opposed my father, mocked him, even. Do you think it could be him?’
‘Possibly,’ Calidus said. ‘At the very least he is likely in service to Asroth’s cause. He sows division amongst those your father would reach, belittles the truth of our cause.’
Nathair snapped a twig and threw it on the fire.
‘When you stand before the Jehar on the morrow,’ Calidus said, ‘remember what I am about to tell you. The writings of Halvor, the giant, mention certain criteria that the champions shall be known by. Kin-Slayer, Kin-Avenger, Giant-Friend, Draig-Rider. You are already friend to a giant,’ he gestured at Alcyon, ‘and you have just spoken of riding a draig.’ He chuckled. ‘You are the prophecy, Nathair, living and breathing.’
‘You know of the giant’s prophecy?’ Veradis said.
‘Of course I do,’ Calidus said, winking at him. ‘Wouldn’t be much of a spymaster if I didn’t, now, would I?’
Veradis snorted. ‘And the Jehar, they have heard it as well?’
‘Yes. Their ancestors have lived through the Scourging, remember, so they are aware of Halvor’s writings. If my sources are correct, they have disagreed, I understand, over the interpretation of the prophecy. It is vague, in parts.’
‘More like riddles,’ Veradis said.
‘Good for the brain,’ Calidus said, tapping his temple. ‘The Jehar, they have a name of their own for Elyon’s Bright Star. They call him the Seren Disglair. And remember one other thing. This you must say: the Ben-Elim, Elyon’s warrior-angels, they will stand behind the Bright Star.’
‘The Jehar know of the coming war, then?’ Nathair said quietly.
‘Yes, if the tales are to be believed. It is what they live for, have trained for. They yearn for it.’
Veradis looked at the faces around the campfire. Alcyon was gazing at the ground, face hidden in shadow. Calidus and Nathair were staring at each other, Nathair wide-eyed, Calidus calm but intense.
‘I know who you are, what you will become,’ the Vin Thalun whispered. ‘That is why I serve you.’ His voice trembled slightly.
Nathair nodded. ‘Come, then. We should sleep, and let us see what the morrow brings.’
‘We are here,’ said Calidus. The Vin Thalun was sitting his horse at the head of their small column. Veradis squinted and leaned in his saddle to look past Calidus, but all he could see was more of the valley they had been riding through since daybreak, mountains all around.
He frowned as they moved on again. Calidus had just disappeared. He blinked, then Alcyon vanished too. He stared hard, could just make out two shadowy figures. The air before him and Nathair shimmered, the dim outlines of Calidus and Alcyon appearing as if through a veil of water.
Nathair looked at him, shrugged, then kicked his horse on. Veradis followed quickly. His skin tingled as he passed through the shimmering barrier, then he too was through.
The mountains were gone, replaced by a lush green vale. A river flowed out of the mountains, twisting in great curves through the vale until it reached a body of water that filled the horizon, sparkling in the sun as if dusted with silver.
Tilled fields filled the valley, rolling up to the walls of a fortress, white stone gleaming. ‘Behold, Telassar,’ said Calidus with an elaborate sweep of his hand.
‘Where are we?’ Veradis murmured.
‘That,’ Calidus said, pointing to the body of water that filled the horizon, ‘is the Inland Sea. We are in the far north of Tarbesh, in the Hidden Vale, ancient and secret home of the Jehar.’ A smile of satisfaction flickered on the Vin Thalun’s face, but he said no more. Veradis glanced behind, could see no sign of the trail they had ridden in on, only sheer-faced cliffs climbing into clouds high above.
‘Come, then,’ said Nathair, kicking his white stallion on. Quickly they fell in behind the Prince, winding their way towards the white walls of Telassar.
They were still far from the fortress when a horn-call rang out and they spotted a group cantering towards them.
Veradis studied the riders as they drew near. Their horses were tall, long legged, finer boned than those he and his companions were riding. They had an easy grace about them that made him think of his own mount as clumsy. The riders were all dark haired, clean shaven, long hair tied back at the nape, sword hilts rising above their backs. Veradis blinked, realizing some of them were women. When only a dozen paces separated them, they reined in, raising dust from the road.
One of the riders spoke. It was a language that Veradis had never heard before, harsh and guttural, but Calidus replied in the same tongue. The warrior frowned, then spoke again, this time in the Common Tongue.
‘Who are you? What is your business here?’ He spoke slowly, carefully.
‘I am the Seren Disglair,’ said Nathair, spreading his arms wide. ‘I would speak with your lord.’
The rider rocked back in his saddle. Murmurs spread through the riders at his back, followed by a stunned silence. Veradis saw shock, fear, disbelief, awe sweep their faces.
‘The Seren Disglair?’ said the rider that had first spoken, leaning forward in his saddle.
‘I have travelled far to find you. I must speak with your lord.’
The warrior turned to his companions and spoke with them in his guttural tongue, then the leading warrior gave an order, and one of their number sped back towards the fortress.
‘I am Akar,’ the warrior that had greeted them said. ‘Please, come. I shall escort you to Sumur, Lord of Telassar.’
As they approached the fortress, Veradis saw men, women and children working the fields. All stopped to watch, and soon the group passed through wide gates into a huge open courtyard. To one side row upon row of men and women were standing, all moving in a kind of synchronized pattern, almost like a dance. They held long, wooden practice swords, slightly curved, shaped like the one strapped to Akar’s back.
To the other side, people were sparring, the familiar clack-clack sounding oddly reassuring in this unfamiliar place.
Veradis felt himself straightening in his saddle, felt eyes burning into him as word of Nathair’s claim spread through the crowds.
Their escort led them through twisting streets lined with huge trees, drooping, wide-leaved branches giving shade, and single-storeyed buildings, all carved out of the same bone-white rock. Faces appeared at doors and windows, most glances first drawn to Alcyon, striding behind Calidus. Veradis smiled to himself. No chance of a subtle entrance with him around.
They dismounted quickly amidst a growing crowd, leaving their horses to a churning mass of stable boys, all eager to take their mounts.
‘This way,’ said Akar, waving a hand. He led them through an arched gateway into a garden, leaving the crowds behind. Stone pillars broke up the verdant surroundings and everywhere there was clinging vine, dark orchids, purple iris and other brighter flowers that Veradis did not recognize.
‘How do you know their tongue?’ Veradis whispered to Calidus as they strode down a wide path that dissected the garden. ‘It sounded like some form of giantish.’
Calidus glanced at him, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
‘That language was the Common Tongue, before the Scourging. It was shared by giants and men alike. Your kin the Exiles changed many things when they returned here from the Isle of Summer.’
Veradis grunted.
A high-domed building lay ahead, a warrior opening its dark polished doors for them.
They stepped into a high-vaulted room; a gentle breeze blew through many windows. A tall man stood in its centre, waiting, his jet-black hair bound at the nape like the other warriors Veradis had seen. A loose-fitting shirt of black linen ill concealed a broad frame. This man was clearly a warrior. Dark eyes gazed out intently from under a protruding brow, resting briefly on each of them. Veradis felt a weightlessness in his stomach, a slight tingle of fear. Although he seemed unsettled, there was something feral about this man.
Akar spoke quickly in their harsh tongue. The man answered, staring again at Nathair. ‘Welcome.’ He touched a hand to his forehead. ‘I am Sumur, Lord of Telassar.’
‘Well met,’ said Nathair, stepping forward, smiling broadly. ‘I have travelled long and far to find you.’
Sumur’s eyes swept across them, pausing briefly on Alcyon.
‘We are unused to guests here. How did you find this place, and why are you here?’
Nathair smiled. ‘Surely our escort has told you.’
A silence settled, Sumur regarding each one of them in turn.
‘I have been told of your claim.’ Sumur nodded slowly. ‘But you have not answered the question I asked of you: how did you find this place?’ There was an edge to his voice now.
‘Elyon guided us,’ Nathair said.
Sumur snorted. ‘A little more detail, please.’
‘I am Nathair ben Aquilus, Prince of Tenebral. I found this place,’ Nathair said with a sweep of his hand, ‘because I am the Seren Disglair, and so was meant to find it.’
‘So you say.’ Sumur clapped his hands, gesturing to the cushions behind him. ‘Please, sit. Some food and drink for our weary travellers. I would not have it said that the Seren Disglair walked into my home and was treated discourteously.’ He smiled thinly.
Men and women suddenly appeared. They brought scented water and cloths to wash their guests’ hands, then bowls of figs and peaches, plums and olives, warm flatbreads and jars of wine. They were all dressed similarly to Sumur and Akar, though none had a sword strapped to his back. All of them stared at Nathair.
Veradis ate a little, sipping at a cup of red wine, eyes fixed on Sumur. He is nervous, he thought, and rightly so. The champion of a god has just walked into his house. He shifted his weight on the cushion he was sat in, feeling awkward and uncomfortable, vulnerable. After a while he gave up wriggling and stood up.
Alcyon tried to eat from a bowl of figs, but his thick fingers could not pick anything up. In the end he lifted the whole bowl and tipped its contents into his mouth.
When they were done, the small tables were cleared, fresh wine brought.
‘Let us cut to the heart of the matter,’ Nathair said once the last attendant had left the room. ‘I have appeared, making great claims. You are wondering if I speak the truth.’
Sumur smiled. ‘Just so,’ he nodded.
‘Then let me seek to persuade you.’ Nathair stood, began to pace about the room. ‘I am here. Why would I come here, if not at Elyon’s bidding? I have found this place. The Hidden Vale, which has remained secret for countless generations. How would that be possible, unless Elyon has brought me here?’
‘There are ways, though they are difficult,’ Sumur said. ‘You are not the first to find us.’
Nathair raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Halvor has written of these days, of me. You only have to look and see to recognize that.’
‘The prophecy has been wrongly interpreted before,’ Akar said. ‘Sword brothers have left here, convinced by another’s words. They were wrong. We must be sure.’
Nathair frowned. ‘The giant-stones have wept blood, white wyrms roam the land, the Treasures are stirring.’
Veradis heard something, not quite a voice, but something, so faint. He looked at Calidus, saw the man’s lips moving, forming silent words, his hands taught, knuckles white. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. Suddenly Nathair seemed to grow, somehow, his presence, his voice appearing to fill the room, booming.
‘I am the Bright Star,’ Nathair declared. ‘Elyon comes to me in my dreams, has told me this is so. Look at my companions – Giant-Friend, they call me.’ He gestured to Alcyon. ‘I am the Seren Disglair, chosen avatar of Elyon. All who resist Asroth shall gather behind me, even the Ben-Elim, the warrior-angels.’
He fell silent, breathing heavily, fists clenched, eyes burning.
‘Enough of this,’ Calidus said. The old man stood, looking taller to Veradis, his back straighter, shoulders broader. ‘The Seren Disglair does not negotiate. He is. And his followers will know him. As I do.’ Suddenly Calidus changed. It was as if he had been wreathed in mist, for now his travel-stained clothes were replaced by a coat of gleaming mail, his eyes blazed amber, and things were growing from his back, wings, Veradis realized, great wings of white feather. They extended across the room, flexed, the wind of them staggering Veradis, spilling the jug of wine.
‘The Ben-Elim,’ whispered Akar.
Sumur stood open-mouthed, staring, then dropped to one knee before Nathair. ‘I am yours, my lord. The swords of the Jehar are yours.’
CHAPTER FORTY
KASTELL
Kastell lay back in the grass, fingers laced behind his head, eyes closed. He took a deep breath, drawing in the fresh scent of grass mingled with white meadowsweet and moist, rich earth.
It was good, being back here. Peaceful.
He had begun to feel claustrophobic since his return to Mikil, hemmed in by crowds of people and stone walls. Blowing out a long breath, he felt the tension easing from his body. Things were supposed to be different now: he had slain a giant, crossed mountains, traversed realms, seen far-off Jerolin, fought alongside the Sirak, been included by his uncle in important plans, made friends.
But now that he had returned, things seemed to be slipping back to how they had always been – people whispering about him behind their hands, sniggering and pointing, warriors he had befriended on the road avoiding him. And since the battle by the stream and Maquin’s discovery of the bag of gold, he had felt a tension building, a shadow following him, like crows hovering behind a warband.
He had seen little of Jael, did not trust him now, knew that he was plotting against him.
Grass tickled his ear, and he opened his eyes, leaned forward. He was sitting on the slope of a small dell with a cairn standing at its base, grass and wildflowers growing in gaps in the stones. The bones of his mam and da were in there, cold, damp. He sighed. It had been a long time since he had been here.
‘What should I do, Da?’ he whispered.
Distant sounds of the fortress drifted down to him, carried by a strong, swirling breeze. But one sound was getting closer, a rider coming this way. Kastell scrambled up, reaching for his sword as a horseman crested the ridge of the dell. But it was only Maquin.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Maquin said as he slipped from his saddle. ‘Thought I’d find you here. Jael is up to his tricks – I overheard talk today, over a jug of ale. Said you were behind the axe being stolen, that you were trading it with the Hunen, but the deal went wrong. Apparently the Hunen tried to kill us, but we escaped.’
‘What? But, that’s not true . . .’
‘I know. I was there, remember.’
‘Who was saying these things?’
‘The man I heard was Ulfilas. One of Jael’s men, of course.’ He rubbed his knuckles and winced. ‘He’ll think twice before he says it again, though. But I’m sure he’s not the only man Jael has put to spreading these rumours. Have you thought any more on joining the Gadrai?’
Kastell frowned. ‘Aye. Just about every moment that I’m awake.’
‘What’s stopping you? I’ve seen how you’ve been treated since our return. And always by Jael’s lads.’ He hawked, spat.
A large part of him did just want to leave, to move on, to recapture the freedom that he had felt whilst on the road. But the
re was something keeping him in Mikil. He took a deep breath and decided just to come out with it.
‘Do you remember on the journey back from Jerolin, when King Romar had me ride with him a while?’
‘Aye, lad.’
‘Well, he spoke of next year. Of taking men from Isiltir to join with Braster of Helveth, to attack the Hunen, root them out of Forn Forest. Romar said he wanted me to, to . . .’ He paused. Why was this so difficult to say? He sucked in a deep breath. ‘He wanted me to be involved in the campaign, to lead some of the men of Isiltir. Along with Jael.’
Maquin just looked at him, silent, and waited.
‘My uncle has never asked anything of me before. He took me in after Da . . . He took me in, provided for me, never asked for anything in return. I would not let him down in this.’
Maquin nodded slowly. ‘I see,’ he said, then frowned. ‘But, lad, he thinks that you and Jael are reconciled, that your bad blood is behind you.’
‘Aye, he does.’
They stood there in silence for long moments, staring at each other.
‘Kastell,’ Maquin said. ‘I am your shieldman, not your da, so I cannot tell you what to do, but I also count myself as your friend, so I’ll give you my thoughts. You can do with them what you will.’
Kastell grunted.
‘I understand you wanting to please your uncle, not let him down. But this thing between you and Jael – it is no childhood prank or grudge any more. I remember the stream, lad.’ He raised a hand to the thin scar on his forehead, tracing it gently with one finger. ‘I fought with you, saw men die over this feud between you . . .’
‘It is not my feud,’ snapped Kastell. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’
‘Aye, lad, aye,’ Maquin said, holding up a hand. ‘I know – other than kicking Jael in the knackers in front of the finest warriors the Banished Lands have to offer, that is. But that aside, whether you are in it willingly or no, you’ll still be the one that has your blood spilt, sooner or later. You and Jael are close to being Romar’s heirs. One of you will be lord here, and I know you have never wanted any part of that, never sought it. But Jael is a different creature; he thirsts for it, and in his eyes you are a rival. You are living in the den of your enemy, and he is only going to grow more powerful.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘This is not going to end well, lad.’
