by John Gwynne
‘You see,’ Halion said quietly, ‘how my brother uses his shield? Not just to block Marrock’s blade. He seeks to knock him off balance, to open his guard.’
Corban nodded. As he watched, Conall caught a downswing on his shield, pushed up and back, shoving his shield’s boss at Marrock’s face. The huntsman jumped back, swinging his own shield into Conall’s side as the warrior surged forwards, unsteadying him.
Halion grunted approvingly. ‘The shield can be a weapon too. In battle it would be iron rimmed, iron bossed. Strike your enemy with it and you may end it all there. Shield-work limits your choice of sword, though. Some men prefer a longer, heavier blade, which must be wielded two-handed. That will give you extra reach, more weight to your blows. To use a shield you must wield a lighter blade, unless the man is an ox like your da, or Tull. Such as they can have the best of both worlds.’ Halion looked Corban up and down, slapping his shoulder. ‘Your labour in Thannon’s forge will serve you well – strong arms and shoulders. You’ll not be as big as your da, I think, but you’ll be stronger than many.’ He stopped. Halion did not usually say much, except when talking of sword-craft.
‘Why did you stay away from the feast at Badun?’ Corban asked, remembering they had not been present during the feast and duel.
‘What? That was moons ago.’
‘So?’ shrugged Corban. ‘Everyone was there, and you missed the duel. I wanted to talk to you about it.’
‘I had my reasons,’ Halion said, his mouth tight. ‘Now pay attention.’ He turned back to the contest between Marrock and his brother.
The two men were trading blows now, huge sweeps and fast lunges, blocking and striking repeatedly.
‘Marrock is well matched against my brother,’ Halion said. ‘He is a strategist, while my brother is a force of nature. If he weren’t so good his anger would have got him killed a long time ago. Some men are like that, Corban, you can see it in their eyes. That can be a weapon too. Men make mistakes when they are angry.’
‘I know. Anger is the enemy, as G—’ Corban paused. Halion glanced at him, but said nothing.
‘Would Conall choose to fight with a shield?’ Corban asked.
‘Sometimes. If the situation dictates it. He favours using two swords, or a sword and a knife.’ He grinned. ‘As I said, he’s not a patient man. He is fast, though, the fastest I’ve ever seen.’
As if to prove Halion’s point, Conall increased the momentum of his attack, his sword arm blurring in Corban’s eye. He swept forwards, lunging with his shield, tucked his sword tight behind it, hidden from Marrock’s view. He swung his blade at Marrock’s ribs, checked the strike as Marrock moved to block, angled his sword down in a half-circle, beneath Marrock’s shield rim, then up, the tip of his blade digging into the huntsman’s gut.
Marrock paused, looking slightly confused, then realized the contest was over. He dipped his head to Conall, who was grinning again.
‘Many think swordplay is about who is the strongest,’ Halion said, ‘and often I suppose that is true. But for the masters – those that plan to live the longest – swordplay is about deception. About making your opponent think you will strike from the left and then striking from the right, making him think you will slash but lunging instead. Deception. That is how Conall just defeated Marrock: his sword was not where he had made Marrock think it was going to be, so Marrock’s guard, his weight, his focus was elsewhere. And he used his shield to aid the deception. You see?’
‘I . . . yes, I do.’
‘The duel you mentioned at Badun between Tull and Morcant, well, even though I didn’t see it I heard about every blow.’
Corban nodded enthusiastically. How could he ever forget?
‘Tull won that through deception, remember, flicking the rushes into Morcant’s face. He has a keen mind, Tull, as sharp as his blade. People think he just overwhelms his opponents because he is big, but that is not the case. He thinks. That is no small task when you are fighting to stay alive. Come, lad, now you’ve seen how a shield can be used, let’s see how you get on.’
Corban followed Halion to the weapons racks. He had tried shield-work in plenty, but still did not feel wholly comfortable with it. His training with Gar was always with a two-handed practice sword. That was the favoured weapon of the stablemaster, and so that was what he felt most at ease with.
He glanced around the Field as he crunched across frozen grass, saw Tull standing tall before a handful of warriors that he was working with.
His mam had been different since his return from Badun. He would often catch her staring at him, an unreadable expression on her face. And she was touching him more; not that she had never shown him affection before his journey, but now she would gravitate towards him whenever they were in the same room, even if it was just her fingertips brushing the back of his hand. Maybe it was because of his fainting.
But she was not the only one paying him more attention. Wherever he was, he would see his da or Gar. When at Brina’s performing his chores, which had somehow settled into a permanent arrangement, Gar would be nearby working with horses in the paddocks; and if not in the forge with his da he would often feel the big man’s presence nearby, even when he was spending his meagre free time with Dath around the village. It was starting to annoy him.
‘Make sure your grip is good; it can make the difference between a broken arm or no,’ Halion said as Corban hefted an old, battered shield. Then they set to, Halion pushing Corban to think about every move, making him pay with a new bruise for every thoughtless mistake. It was not long before Corban’s arm was numb, his shoulder throbbing from the blows that had soaked through the shield into his arm. Halion grinned wolfishly at him. ‘That’ll do for the day, lad.’
‘Good,’ Corban grunted, sweat stinging his eyes.
‘You’re doing well. More than well with a blade, and your shield-work is not bad, either. We need to focus on bow and spear, though.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Corban. ‘A sword’s good enough for me. Warriors don’t use a bow – why do I need to learn?’
‘Because warriors need to eat,’ said Halion. ‘You won’t have food caught by other people for you all of your life. You will need to play your part. And, who knows? Maybe one day you’ll have to bring down your own meals. You’ll be glad of time spent with bow and spear then.’
Corban didn’t answer. He knew there was sense in Halion’s words, but he was hungry to learn with a blade. There was just no honour in a bow, unless you were a huntsman like Marrock. He had already tried it, with Halion standing behind him, and done quite poorly. He’d taken the skin off his forearm with more than one mistimed shot.
He glanced over to the ranges at the far end of the Field, saw the tall, gangly frame of Tarben, the small, distinctive outline of Dath beside him, straight-backed, launching arrows unerringly at straw targets. The fisherman’s son had taken remarkably well to the weapon, although he was not overly happy with his newfound ability – he longed to be a swordsman. That was the only way he’d be taken into a baron’s hold as a warrior, and that was his secret dream: to escape his da’s boat, fishing, the sea, and to carve a warrior’s life for himself.
‘Not today, though, lad,’ Halion said, seeing Corban’s sour expression. ‘We’re done for the day. I’ll see you on the morrow.’
Corban trudged out of the Field, Storm rising from beneath the first tree of the rowan lane as he approached.
Others were leaving the Field, walking on their own or in small groups. Corban paid them little attention until he heard Storm growl quietly. He looked up, saw Rafe with his usual companion, Crain. They were stooping as they walked, snatching up handfuls of gravel and stones and throwing them at someone in front.
Corban sped up, trying to see better what was going on.
In front of Rafe a tall, broad figure strode, head bowed as small stones ricocheted off his back.
Rafe was laughing. ‘Just like his da,’ the huntsman’s son was saying. ‘There’s no room in t
he Field for cowards, or the sons of cowards, you know.’
The figure in front suddenly stopped and turned. It was Farrell, son of Anwarth, the warrior rumoured to have feigned his wounding in the Darkwood when Rhagor had been killed. Farrell’s fists were bunched, face red and pinched. Tears stained his cheeks.
‘What?’ said Rafe, sauntering up to him.
Farrell was shaking. ‘Just – stop,’ he said, a tremor in his voice. He was younger than Corban, but he stood as tall as Rafe, and broader.
Crain stepped up beside Rafe.
‘No,’ Rafe said, ‘I don’t think I will. The Rowan Field is for the training of warriors. Why don’t you spend your days at the village? Try gutting and washing fish with the other women.’
‘W-why are you . . .?’ Farrell stammered.
Corban reached the group. A deep, burning sensation was spreading outwards from his gut. ‘Leave him alone,’ he heard himself say.
‘Oh ho,’ said Crain, turning. ‘Where are all these cowards coming from?’
Rafe just scowled at him.
Storm took a step forward, snarling, teeth bared. A line of spittle dripped from her mouth. Rafe and Crain took an involuntary step backwards.
‘I don’t think she likes your tone,’ said Corban, touching her flank lightly.
‘Think you’re the hero now, rushing to the rescue of other cowards?’ Rafe said. ‘You two could form your own warband, only cowards accepted. Walk on, blacksmith’s boy – you’ll have yours coming, but you’ve a while yet. Two moons from now I sit my Long Night. Not even Tull will be able to save you once you’ve sat your Long Night. I’ll be waiting for you.’
Corban shrugged. ‘Leave him alone,’ he said again, glancing at Farrell, who was staring at him. He tried to smile reassuringly and took a step closer to the big lad. Suddenly Farrell’s hands were on his shoulders, spinning him around, hoisting him a handspan off the ground.
‘Stay out of it,’ the broad-shouldered lad said, vehemently, scowling at Corban.
Without thinking, Corban kicked both his feet, cracking Farrell in the shins. He was suddenly dropped and staggered back. ‘I’m trying to help you,’ Corban stuttered.
Farrell just glared at him, eyes screwed up, then he turned and ran, lumbering away.
Rafe and Crain laughed, walking on. ‘You must try harder at making friends,’ Rafe called over his shoulder, still chuckling.
Corban stood there a while, shocked, angry. He had only wanted to help – he knew what it was like to have Rafe single you out for attention. He set off, kicking his heels against the shingle. Then he remembered how he had felt when Rafe had first hit him during the Spring Fair, how scared, how angry, how ashamed that he’d done nothing. And then Cywen had stood up for him. He hadn’t been too grateful at the time, either. He thought about that for a while. Maybe he’d try and talk to Farrell, apologize.
How he loathed Rafe. ‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ the huntsman’s son had said. Well, good.
Looking up, he realized his feet had taken him to the stables. His sister stood in the paddock, a horse’s foreleg rested across her knee as she scraped out its hoof with a small knife. He settled against a post a few strides from her, waiting for her to finish.
A strange sensation suddenly spread along his neck, down his back and arms, goose-fleshing his skin. He looked up quickly and saw Gar near the stable doors with a tall, dark-haired man, holding the reins of a huge dapple-grey stallion. The man had deep scars on his face, like claw marks. They were both looking at him.
‘Who’s that, with Gar?’ he asked his sister.
‘Huh?’ grunted Cywen, concentrating on the hoof in her grip. She glanced up briefly. ‘Oh, he rode in earlier. What did Gar call him? Meical, I think.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
VERADIS
Veradis stood on a shingle ridge, arms folded across his leather-bound chest, watching.
Two score ships sat anchored in the bay they had found, crewed by men he would, until recently, have regarded as his enemy. Now they were his allies, speeding him towards his heart’s desire.
Mandros.
Orcus’ call from Aquilus’ study to apprehend the King of Carnutan had come too late. Mandros had fled, not even gathering all of his warriors in his haste to vacate Jerolin. Aquilus’ eagle-guard had followed, but the gap had been too great and Mandros had been reckless in his flight, losing men to the steep slopes and snow-filled trenches of the Agullas, but increasing the distance between himself and those that hunted him. Almost a full moon later those that had set out to bring Mandros back had returned to Jerolin, heads low, empty handed.
Aquilus’ burial had already passed by then, the barons of Tenebral gathered to pay their last respects as a cairn was raised above their dead king, and swear new oaths of fealty to a still weak and pale-faced Nathair. The knife wound had missed all of his vital organs, but the Prince had come close to bleeding to death in Aquilus’ study, waiting for healers to arrive, his grip on Veradis’ hand growing weaker and weaker.
Not for the first time, Veradis felt a flame ignite in his gut. A fierce rage had consumed him those first few days after Midwinter. He had felt such shame, standing idly by in a corridor while his King was murdered and his Prince and friend stabbed, left for dead. Since then all emotion in him had been distilled, transformed into the raw essence of a cold, permanent rage that he had never experienced before.
Mandros would pay.
He had been tempted to leave as soon as those hunting Mandros had returned without their quarry, but Nathair had still been weak and the passes through the Agullas Mountains were closed to more than a handful of men. It would take more than that to root out Mandros. He would be safely back in his kingdom of Carnutan, surrounded by his warbands, who’d be guarding the mountain passes into his realm. Lykos – whom Nathair had summoned soon after the attack – had agreed to ferry a force to the coast of Carnutan, but he had counselled against sailing throughout the Tempest and Snow Moons. So they had waited, planned, organized provisions, spoken of goals and strategy.
Nathair had given Peritus overall command of the campaign, much to Veradis’ surprise.
‘He has weathered many campaigns,’ Nathair had said. ‘No matter my grievances with him, he is good at this, and his anger against Mandros burns as bright as yours. Watch him, learn from him.’
Veradis had grudgingly agreed, and soon recognized the truth in Nathair’s words. Peritus was a keen strategist and a man of immense organizational skills. And so it was that he found himself on a beach on the southern coast of Carnutan, watching hundreds of warriors bearing the eagle of Tenebral disembarking from a fleet of Vin Thalun ships.
They had begun unloading at sunrise, the first of a score of scouts and their horses, quickly fanning out beyond the beach. It was now almost highsun.
As he watched, a dozen men cried out. The wain they were guiding down a wide ramp lurched off its bearings. One wheel teetered in air before toppling into the surf below, scattering its cargo and sending a cloud of spray up about it.
He cursed to himself, calculating the extra time needed to try and recover the wain’s cargo.
‘Patience,’ a voice said beside him. He turned and saw Peritus a few paces away.
Veradis nodded, turned back to watch warriors filing onto the beach. They were forming into two loose clusters. The smaller was his warband: around six hundred men, the survivors of their campaign in Tarbesh – each man carrying a draig’s tooth. When added to Peritus’ larger band the whole force numbered a little under three thousand swords. Not a large force to send into the heart of an enemy realm, but they hoped stealth would be their ally. Mandros would expect them to wait for the spring thaw and cross the Agullas Mountains in large numbers when the passes opened, but that was at least half a moon away still. Their scouts had reported a massing of warriors at Tarba, the fortress guarding the mountain pass into Carnutan itself.
They did have another warband gathering at Jerolin, ready to march t
hrough the mountains with the thaw, but hopefully they would have Mandros by then. The task now was to march north to Mandros’ own fortress. Lykos had assured him that Mandros had fled there, gone to ground like a fox fleeing the hounds.
On the beach a man detached himself from Veradis’ gathering warriors and raised an arm to him – Rauca. He strode purposefully up the shingle ridge dotted with thin, straggly clumps of grass, and stood beside Veradis.
‘There’ll be songs about us, one day soon,’ he grinned. ‘Lads will dream of being us, lasses will just dream of us.’
Veradis snorted, Rauca’s grin broadening.
‘Be careful they’re not singing your cairn song,’ Peritus said.
‘No chance of that. I plan on standing right next to Veradis through every moment of combat.’
Veradis shook his head. In silence the three men watched the last warriors empty from the Vin Thalun ships, rolling a score of wains across the beach onto firmer ground.
The fleet of ships began to move, turned and Veradis nodded approvingly as he saw the ships split into two groups, one disappearing east, the other west.
‘Why are they doing that?’ Rauca asked.
‘They are splitting to harry Mandros’ fortresses along the coast,’ Peritus replied. ‘That way, if the fleet has been spotted, it will just be thought that they are corsair raiders.’
The battlechief turned to Veradis. ‘It grates me to be aided by the Vin Thalun, but they have strategic merit, I must confess. Nathair has a keen head on his shoulders.’
‘Aye,’ Veradis assented. He did not want to think about that right now; it was too close to his last memories of Aquilus, railing at Nathair over his association with the Vin Thalun.
