by John Gwynne
Morcant smiled, stood tall. He was weary, but not as tired as Tull. ‘Ready to die, old man?’
‘Not yet,’ Tull said through gritted teeth. He flicked his wrist, his sword-point flinging rushes and earth into Morcant’s face.
Rhin’s champion grasped at his eyes, stepping backwards, raising his sword to protect his head and chest, but Tull did not strike there. He stepped forwards, swinging his sword low and hard into Morcant’s booted ankle. There was a loud crack, Morcant wobbling for a moment, then he crashed to the ground. Tull leaped forwards, trod hard on Morcant’s sword wrist and levelled his blade at the fallen man’s chest.
‘My King?’ Tull said, not taking his eyes from Morcant’s.
There was utter silence, broken only by the loud breaths of the two champions and the crackle of flames. Corban’s palms were clammy with sweat. He held his breath. All eyes turned to Brenin, knowing Tull asked his lord’s sentence.
The King of Ardan bowed his head, looked at Rhin.
‘Let him live,’ he said.
Tull was still a moment, then he shrugged, spat blood and saliva into the rushes by Morcant’s head.
‘As you wish,’ he said, lifting the tip of his sword away from Morcant’s chest. He traced a line up the man’s neck, over his chin, rested the point on his cheekbone, flicked his wrist, cutting a deep line below Morcant’s eye.
‘Here endeth the lesson,’ Tull said, then turned and limped from the hall, Tarben and a handful of warriors from Dun Carreg hastening after him.
Rhin glared at Brenin and pulled her cloak about her. ‘I seem to have lost my appetite,’ she said, and left, not even glancing at her fallen champion.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
VERADIS
Veradis brushed his horse’s flank, the slow rhythmic movement helping to calm him. He felt anxious.
It was Midwinter’s Eve. Four nights had passed since he had witnessed the confrontation between Nathair and Fidele. Nothing related to Fidele’s warning had actually happened since then but its potential seemed to hover over Veradis like a bad dream, always there and just out of view.
The things that Fidele had said were true, and so it was surely only a matter of time before Aquilus heard the same rumours and confronted Nathair.
The truth will out.
That was not a confrontation he wanted to witness. Nathair had said that he was going to tell Aquilus, talk to him about the Vin Thalun and their uses. He was just waiting for the right time. Veradis hoped it would be before Aquilus heard from some other source.
And then, tomorrow was Midwinter’s Day. Would the sun really turn black?
He had never doubted Nathair, and that included the prediction of tomorrow’s events. And of course he had seen Calidus transformed, although the memory of it felt distant, insubstantial, somehow, like a fading dream. And tomorrow was so central, so pivotal to everything that had happened since Aquilus’ council, as if all led to this one moment. This moment that would mark the beginning of – what? A new age, Nathair called it. Word had reached them that all over the Banished Lands kings and queens were gathering. But what if the sun did not turn black?
He had heard tales of similar omens. A blood-red star in the sky, falling to earth had supposedly heralded Elyon’s Scourging, when the world had been a different place, even a different shape, but that was just a tale. Over a thousand years the Exiles had dwelt in the Banished Lands, with no talk of wars between Elyon and Asroth, no unnatural signs in the sky.
He sighed and rested his head against his grey’s neck. ‘What will the morrow bring?’ he muttered. He shook himself and set to pulling knots from the horse’s mane.
What will be, will be, he thought. One thing is sure: come what may, I am the Prince’s man. I will follow his lead.
The sun rose into a clear sky on Midwinter’s Day, a bitter wind blowing from the mountains, the land froze iron hard. It was mid-morning when Veradis stood in the hall outside Nathair’s chamber. He waited there a while, then straightened his shoulders and knocked on the door.
Nathair answered quickly. A sable cloak draped his shoulders, the white eagle of Tenebral standing bright on a black polished breastplate. His short sword hung at his hip.
‘Ready?’ the Prince said, grinning at Veradis.
‘Aye.’
‘Are many gathered?’
‘Some, though your father has not yet left the keep.’
‘Good. Come, then,’ Nathair said, striding down the hallway.
They found Aquilus and Fidele in the feast-hall, a small crowd gathered about them. Peritus was there, as was Armatus, the weapons-master. Although Veradis had bested him recently, the grizzled warrior was still King Aquilus’ first-sword.
King Mandros of Carnutan stood in conversation with Aquilus, a sour look etched on his face. He had arrived late the previous day and still looked worn from the journey, dark rings under his eyes. News of their first meeting had spread through the fortress, Mandros all but accusing Aquilus of setting the Vin Thalun loose on his realm. Veradis eyed him suspiciously. He did not like the thought of enemies allowed so close to Nathair and Aquilus. His gaze lingered on Mandros’ sword.
A tall figure stood beside Fidele. Meical had returned.
The King’s counsellor had been absent since before they had left for Tarbesh. It was unusual for a counsellor to be away so much, but it was Aquilus’ choice to send him on such lengthy quests. When Veradis had mentioned it to Nathair he had only replied that his father was strong minded and took little counsel anyway. It was fitting, though, that the tall man should be here today. After all, it was he who had found the book that had drawn them all to this point.
Meical leaned forward and whispered something to Aquilus as Nathair and Veradis approached. The King swung round, eyes fixing onto his son.
‘Father,’ said Nathair, bowing his head. ‘The day long awaited is finally here.’
‘Aye,’ Aquilus said curtly. ‘Come, let us find a place on the walls, the better to see it.’
They filed out of the keep, a warrior escort waiting beyond, and made their way to the battlements that ringed the fortress, climbing the wide, giant-crafted steps to look out upon the plain and lake.
Scores of people stood on the lake shore, and the battlements and streets of Jerolin were crowded, everyone looking upwards.
The sun was high now, bright in a pale blue sky. Everything looked normal.
Veradis swallowed, his mouth dry. He looked around, saw stablemaster Valyn standing further along the battlements, also staring skyward. He scratched his head, tried to stifle a yawn as he scanned the crowd, eyes coming to rest on Meical. He stood almost a head taller than anyone else in the crowd, the scars on his face silver in the daylight. Unlike most, he was not looking at the sun. He looked around the crowd, studying, measuring everything, every one, his eyes eventually fixing on Veradis. Seeing the warrior watching him, he returned the gaze, his expression unreadable. Veradis thought of Nathair’s words, of the part Meical had played in Aquilus’ plans.
The dark-haired man looked away, gazing upwards.
Suddenly, almost collectively, the crowd gasped. Veradis’ head jerked up, staring at the sun, shielding his eyes.
Through the glare he saw something, an indentation, on the sun’s western rim. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. The mark was still there when he looked again, appearing like a curved finger caressing the sun’s edge.
People cried out, pointing. Slowly, the black smudge grew, spreading like a stain across the disc of the sun. He shivered, blew out a long breath and saw it mist in the air before him. It was colder, dramatically more than when he had climbed the steps to the battlement.
A sound, a movement caught his eye. Meical had staggered, was clutching at the black stone of the battlement. Beside Veradis, Nathair muttered something and leaned against him.
‘Are you well?’ Veradis said, suddenly worried.
Nathair collapsed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CORBAN
Corban was still filled with the excitement of the duel between Tull and Morcant. Both men were standing close to the circle, though Morcant had his head bowed, the cut on his cheek stitched now, raw and angry.
Suddenly something changed. It was colder, Corban’s skin goose-fleshing. People were shouting, pointing. He squinted at the sun, saw a shadow creeping across it, like a veil being drawn. He felt lightheaded, dizzy, and he staggered. Cywen was beside him, caught his arm and snorted in annoyance. Then his legs were too weak to support him and he was falling, his vision fading.
He was alone, still at the stone circle. He walked into it, turning as he did so, looking all about. All was the same, yet different. Mist swirled about his feet. The sky was grey, the sun a leached, colourless brightness behind thin clouds. The stones seemed taller, more ominous, somehow, the Darkwood an impenetrable shadow before him.
A figure appeared from those shadows, the man he had seen before, marching towards him, an urgency in his stride, his cloak billowing behind him.
‘It is time,’ the man said, smiling warmly as he drew near. ‘I have given you all the time that can be spared. Will you help me?’
‘Where am I?’ Corban mumbled.
‘The Otherworld. The place of spirit,’ the man said.
‘And who are you?’
The man smiled, his eyes creasing. ‘Your friend.’ A smell touched Corban, decay, thick and cloying. ‘Help me.’
‘I-I don’t know,’ Corban said.
The man grimaced, his mouth tightening. ‘I have been patient, but I cannot wait any longer. You are not my only option, you know.’ He gestured in the air.
Corban saw a figure, transparent but clear, a curly-haired man, handsome, with striking blue eyes. He was walking alone on a battlement, staring out into an empty plain. Cords, chains, were wrapped around the man’s wrists and ankles, though loosely, moving with him as he walked. Corban felt a sharp stab of worry for the man. He is ensnared, yet does not know it. A wind gusted and the figure melted away.
‘Others can help me, but I want you.’ The last word was almost a growl. ‘You must make a stand, fight for what is right. Fight for me. If not, you will fight for someone else, eventually. I will not let that happen.’ Suddenly Corban felt scared.
‘I have no use for cowards,’ the man continued. ‘Courage is what I need. I can see the fear in you, can smell it.’ He took a long, languid breath, his tongue flickering out, as if tasting the air. ‘You must face your fear, defeat it. Do not be afraid of the task I set you.’
‘It is not the task that I fear,’ Corban said, looking into those ancient, amber eyes. ‘It is you.’
The man frowned. ‘That is a shame.’ He looked genuinely saddened. His hand reached inside his cloak, resting on a sword hilt. Corban saw he was wearing a coat of chainmail, dark and oily, but as he stared, it flickered, looking for a moment like scales.
‘I have been patient. Decide. Now. Will you help me?’
‘I will not,’ Corban said, not knowing why; just that every sense within him was screaming ‘No!’ at the man before him.
The man sighed, shook his head and drew his sword. Black smoke coiled around the blade.
Corban turned and ran.
Behind him the man screamed, full of rage.
There was a sudden rushing of air, the sound of beating wings, and figures dropped to the earth about him, the wind from their leathery wings almost knocking him from his feet. Six of them, all wearing dark mail, carrying smoke-wreathed weapons, sword, axe, spear. Their faces were human-like, though sharp featured, with slitted, reptilian eyes. They converged on him, barring his path.
‘Please,’ Corban whispered.
‘Too late for that,’ the yellow-eyed man said behind him.
A strange sound rang out from somewhere above – a horn call? Corban looked up, saw figures bursting through the clouds. They sped towards him, like arrows loosed from a bow, growing from pinpricks to man-size in moments.
‘The Ben-Elim,’ growled one of the figures nearby.
They alighted about Corban, broad wings of white feathers folding behind them; without a word they fell into savage combat with the creatures about him.
The ferocity of it stunned Corban. There was no posturing or negotiating, only a primal, feral violence. One white-feathered warrior hacked through a shoulder, the blow continuing through a leathery wing. The creature screamed, collapsed writhing to the ground, black smoke issuing from the wound. A head rolled on the floor before Corban; all about him the clash of arms, grunts and battle cries of combat. Two figures took to the air, clawing, gouging at each other.
Hands grasped Corban and suddenly he was being lifted into the air, great white wings propelling him skywards. He twisted but was held firm.
‘Be still,’ a voice growled in his ear.
He looked into a grim, battle-scarred face, dark, purple-tinged eyes staring back at him. A hand reached out, touched his temple and he heard whispered words, then all faded into darkness.
His eyes fluttered open. It was mostly dark, a soft light seeping into the edges of his vision.
Where am I?
He blinked, saw wooden beams condense, take shape in the darkness above, and realized he was lying on his back.
Slowly he lifted his head and rose onto his elbows, tried to move his feet, but found that he couldn’t.
A noise broke out above him, a flapping, a squawking.
‘Awake, awake, awake,’ rasped a harsh voice somewhere up in the rafters. A door opened, footsteps, a face filling his vision.
Brina.
She pressed a cool hand against his forehead, her skin rough. Fingers touched his temples and probed his neck.
‘You’ll live,’ she muttered, then smiled at him, which scared him more than anything else. He was far more accustomed to scowls from the old healer.
Something moved at his feet, scrambled up the cot he was lying on and then his face was engulfed in fur, hot breath, a wet tongue.
Storm. Smiling, he pushed her away and sat up. Cywen, Gar and Dath were hovering behind Brina, Dath’s gaze flitting between Corban and the roof, where Craf was hopping about on a beam, scratching the wood and muttering incomprehensibly. Gar looked about as worried as Corban had ever seen him.
Cywen flung herself upon him, hugging him tight. He grunted, hugging her in return.
‘I was so worried,’ she mumbled into his neck.
‘What – what happened?’ Corban asked. ‘How did I get here?’
‘You just fell over, Ban,’ said Dath, moving closer, reaching out to touch Corban’s arm. ‘Right there in the snow. The sun turned black, and then you just fell over.’
‘Oh,’ said Corban. Cywen released him from her grip and stepped back, wiping at her eyes as Brina bustled out of the room.
‘We didn’t know what to do,’ Cywen said.
‘Cy was screaming,’ Dath added over her shoulder.
‘We didn’t know what to do,’ Cywen repeated, shooting a glare at Dath. ‘Gar threw you over his horse and galloped you here.’
‘Where is here?’
‘The house we’ve been staying in,’ Dath said, sitting at the bottom of the bed.
Brina returned, holding a tray in her hands, a cup and bowl on it.
‘Here, drink this,’ she said, passing him the cup as she hooked a hand under his arm and hoisted him, none too gently, into a better sitting position. Gar hurried to help.
‘What is it?’ said Corban, sniffing suspiciously at the steam rising out of the cup. He wrinkled his nose.
‘What do you think?’ the healer snapped.
He frowned, sniffing again. ‘Hemlock, and something
else.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Brina. ‘Hemlock and wormwood, if you must know. Now drink up. It will help.’
Screwing his eyes shut tight he took a sip, wincing at the bitterness of Brina’s concoction, then held his nose and swallowed the lot. He thought he might as well, before Brina grabbed his nose and did it for him. He’d seen her do it too many times to those in her care.
‘Good boy,’ said Brina, smiling sweetly. ‘Now, eat this.’ She passed him the bowl and a wooden spoon. ‘Just oats, before the questions begin again. To fight any fatigue.’
Corban nodded and began spooning the porridge into his mouth.
Cywen laughed. ‘Well, Brina. You must teach me your secret. I have never seen Ban go along so meekly with something he does not want to do.’
‘I’ve only just woken,’ Corban mumbled, his mouth full. ‘She’s taking advantage of me.’
Dath laughed, but it trailed off as Craf fluttered out of the darkness above, alighting on a bedpost at the foot of the cot, right next to Dath. The fisherman’s son eyed the crow warily.
Storm nuzzled Corban’s hand, trying to stick her nose into the bowl of oats.
‘She wouldn’t leave you, Ban,’ Cywen said. Corban scratched behind the wolven’s ear and let her lick the last of the oats from his bowl.
‘STRANGER,’ squawked Craf suddenly in Dath’s ear, causing him to leap from the bed as if he’d just sat on a roaring fire.
‘Oh, hush,’ said Brina, waving a hand at the crow. Dath had gone bright red, his eyes looking a little wild.
‘How long have I been here?’ Corban asked.
‘Not long,’ said Brina. ‘You’ve been here as long as it takes to boil a pot and mash some oats.’
‘What happened to me?’ he asked.
‘You fainted,’ Brina said with a shrug.
Suddenly a memory struggled within him, faint, like a moth battering against wooden shutters. He heard the sound of wings, smelt something rotten, saw purple eyes. Then it was gone. He passed a hand over his face, pressed at his forehead.
