by John Gwynne
‘We were outmanoeuvred,’ Ronan said, his face bleak. ‘For many nights we beat a path through that forest, our party split into three forces. It was a simple plan – we were all to push to the centre of the Darkwood, meet in the middle and catch Braith between us.’
He paused, reliving bad memories. ‘Somehow Braith managed to swing around our flank. It would have been much worse if not for Marrock and Halion. They caught wind of it somehow, gave us a chance to pull shields and draw blades before the arrows started flying. Many died. More would have – we were pinned down – but that madman . . .’ He snorted, shaking his head. ‘That madman Conall ran at them. He jumped off his horse, lifted his shield and just ran, blind as my boots at a wall of trees and brigands, all trying to fill him full of arrows.’ He laughed. ‘That was all we needed. Pendathran went behind him, then Dalgar; it was like a dam breaking. Those brigands are courageous enough behind trees with a bow in their hands, but they were not so brave when it came to iron against iron.’
‘Did they fight you, then?’ asked Cywen. ‘You know, hand to hand, I mean.’
‘Oh, aye,’ Ronan said, ‘though some fought harder than others. Most of them are used to thieving from holds, or ambushing outnumbered warriors. There were still more of them than us, though, once we closed with them. At least, until Gethin and Evnis arrived, and Uthan, not long behind them.’
‘Oh, they did play a part, then?’ Corban said.
‘Of a fashion,’ Ronan grunted. ‘Depends who you ask. Anyone from Evnis’ warband would tell you they won the battle.’ He snorted. ‘Ask me, I’ll tell you they arrived when it was all but over. We would have fought longer, maybe lost a few more swords, but the outcome would have been the same.’
‘What of Braith?’ Corban asked, thinking of the man that had made an oath to him in this very fortress. And kept it.
‘Braith? He was there. Plenty were looking to take his head. Pendathran got to him first.’ The young warrior looked about, lowering his voice. ‘Only by Elyon’s grace he’s still with us,’ he muttered. ‘That Braith can swing a blade.’
‘What happened then?’ said Edana. ‘Not even Father has told me.’
‘Braith sliced Pendathran’s sword arm, was about to finish him, but those two brothers ran at him – Halion and Conall. Both went swinging at Braith like they were Asroth’s Kadoshim.’
‘Don’t say that,’ muttered Edana. She made the sign against evil.
‘It’s true,’ Ronan shrugged. ‘They did. If not for them we’d have brought Pendathran’s corpse back.’
‘Did they kill him? Braith, I mean,’ pressed Corban.
‘Nay. Some others fell in with Braith, held the brothers off. Halion told me after that one of them was the brigand we had here, the one they caught in the Baglun.’
Corban glanced at Cywen and swallowed. Somehow he felt relieved that Braith had survived.
‘Anyway, that was when Gethin and Evnis arrived. The fight went out of most of the brigands, then and there. Braith got away, a few with him. But not many. We’ll not be having trouble from them again, I’d wager. Not for a few years, at least – if ever.’
‘Good,’ Corban said with feeling.
‘Were you hurt?’ Cywen asked.
‘Me? Not really. A few scratches. It was the first time I have killed a man. But I was not injured. More than I can say for many.’
Cywen reached out, tentatively, and brushed Ronan’s arm with her fingertips. He took her hand, and squeezed it.
‘So the Darkwood is clear, then,’ said Corban, frowning at his sister.
‘Aye. As clear as it will ever be.’
‘Evnis was almost skipping,’ Edana said disapprovingly.
‘Why?’ said Cywen.
‘Because now there is nothing stopping his niece marrying Uthan. Poor Kyla.’
‘What’s wrong with Uthan?’ asked Corban.
‘Oh, it’s not so much him. It’s his father, Owain. Ugh.’ She shivered. ‘And it’s given Evnis new vigour in trying to match me with Vonn.’ She scowled again.
‘When will they be handbound?’ Cywen asked.
‘Spring, I think,’ Edana said. ‘It is too close to winter, now.’
‘So long as Braith does not fill the Darkwood again by spring,’ said Corban.
Ronan shook his head. ‘Winter is hard enough anywhere, but living rough in that forest . . . No. As I said, it would take years to restore the kind of numbers we slew. Their power is broken.’
Cold, stinging rain blew into Corban’s face. He lowered his head, pulled his cloak tighter and trudged on, grumbling to himself. The Crow’s Moon was not a good time to live by the Western Sea.
He had just finished helping Brina and was making his way home, images of hot bread and stew filling his mind. His pace quickened.
Brina had been different, of late – less harsh or abrupt, if not actually pleasant. And she had been giving him more interesting things to do: preparing poultices, mixing herbs and remedies, getting him to use the information that she had been bombarding him with over the last year.
Storm was padding in the grass, some fifty or so paces away, matching his speed. He glanced up, saw Havan getting closer, the fortress above obscured by rain and cloud.
The streets of the village were all but deserted, the only people around scurrying for their hearths as he and Storm passed through. He had just set his foot on the winding road that led to the fortress when a familiar voice called out behind him.
‘Hello, Ban,’ Bethan said as she reached him.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said, recognizing Dath’s sister. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Back up there. Going to see someone.’ She nodded to the cloud-shrouded fortress above them. ‘I’ve been helping in the smokehouse. Walk with me?’
Corban sniffed and wrinkled his nose. ‘Been in the smokehouse too long, I think,’ he said with a smile, pinching his nose. ‘I’ll walk with you – not too close though.’
She pulled a face at him.
‘Who are you going to see?’
‘I can’t say,’ she said, blushing red.
‘Oh ho,’ Corban said, ‘that sounds interesting. Is someone courting you?’
‘Perhaps,’ she was smiling now. ‘Won’t be long, everyone will know. He has to talk to his da first, though.’
‘Come on, Bethan, who is it? I won’t tell.’
She just smiled.
They were about a third of the way up to the fortress, approaching a twist in the road. Suddenly Storm stopped, ears pricked forward. She was staring to their left, past a boulder, at a copse of dense, wind-beaten hawthorns. Corban strained, thought he heard voices though the wind and rain snatched them away. He stared at the copse, thought he saw movement within the trees.
Bethan heard it too and stepped off the path towards the hawthorns. Slowly they made their way closer, into the shelter of the copse, the sound of raised voices growing clearer as the trees shielded them from the full brunt of the weather.
Corban stopped behind a tree, holding a flat-palmed hand up to Storm. He peered into a small clearing, branches knotted overhead.
Three figures were standing there: Rafe and Crain, brandishing a practice sword – his practice sword – and Farrell. Rafe said something, arms waving, then spat in Farrell’s face.
The big lad lunged forwards, hands reaching for Rafe’s throat, but Rafe jumped back. Farrell barrelled after him, swung a fist and caught Rafe a glancing blow across the cheek. Rafe staggered and Farrell grabbed him. Then Crain clubbed Farrell across the back with his wooden sword, sending the big lad tripping over a root, sprawling to the ground. Instantly, Rafe and Crain were kicking and beating him, the practice sword rising and falling.
Corban felt his fists clench, teeth grind, but something stopped his feet from moving. Walkaway, a voice whispered in his head. There’s nothing you can do. They’ll only hurt you again, shame you again.
He glanced at Bethan, saw her mouth open in horror. She took a step forw
ards.
Corban grabbed her arm. She looked at him then, eyes full of compassion, of pity, and suddenly he felt his feet moving.
‘Stay here,’ he said, ‘and hold Storm. Don’t let her follow me.’ He showed the wolven his flat palm again.
Then he was running forwards, threw himself shoulder-first into Crain’s back, sending him flying into a tree. Crain’s head made a loud crack against the trunk: he fell to the ground and did not move. There was a shocked silence as Rafe stared at him. Corban balled his fists and waded into Rafe, throwing punches, connecting with ribs and chin. Rafe swayed a moment, fell to one knee.
‘You’re going to pay now,’ Rafe snarled, jumping up and swinging a wild hook at Corban’s head.
Corban said nothing, well past talking. He ducked, stepped in close and sank a fist into Rafe’s gut that doubled him over, sent a chopping right hook into his temple. Rafe dropped to the floor, rolled away, staggered back to his feet, shaking his head.
‘You’re the one that’s going to pay,’ Corban yelled, over a year’s worth of pent-up rage boiling over in him. ‘You’re a warrior! Not to touch younglings. Tull will take your blade for this.’
‘Not if he doesn’t find out,’ Rafe snarled, pulling his sword from its scabbard. Corban stepped back, wide-eyed. Rafe swung at Corban, but the strike was clumsy, Rafe still feeling the effects of Corban’s blows. Corban jumped backwards. Rafe swung again, this time the tip of the blade leaving a red line on Corban’s forearm. Suddenly pain exploded in his back and he was falling, leaves and damp earth filling his face. He rolled, saw Crain standing over him. Crain swung the practice sword at Corban, but somehow Corban caught hold of it, wrenched it out of Crain’s hands.
Rafe put a boot on Corban’s chest, pushed him flat and lifted his sword high.
I’m going to die, Corban thought, opening his mouth but nothing coming out.
Then a thunderbolt of fur and snapping teeth slammed into Rafe’s chest.
‘No! Storm,’ Corban cried, levering himself to his feet with the practice sword still in his hand, pain pulsing in his back. Storm and Rafe were rolling on the ground. Farrell was trying to rise, blood sheeting into his eyes from a gash on his head. Bethan ran into the clearing, eyes fixed on Storm.
‘I tried to stop her . . .’ she cried.
‘Storm, HERE!’ Corban shouted, but with no effect. ‘Run, Beth, get help,’ he yelled, pushing her towards the path. She looked back once and then was off.
Rafe screamed as Storm’s claws raked his leg, then Storm’s teeth fastened on his arm. He screamed again, higher in pitch, and Storm shook her head. There was a wet tearing sound as Rafe rolled free.
‘No,’ whispered Corban.
Storm stood before him, legs splayed, strips of flesh hanging from her jaws.
Rafe staggered upright. His arm was a mess of blood and fabric and flesh. Corban saw the glint of bone. Rafe sucked in a lungful of air and screamed.
Corban lurched forwards, grabbed Storm by the fur of her neck, shook her. ‘With me,’ he commanded, then turned and ran from the glade, branches and thorns scratching him, Storm loping beside him, panic pounding in his head like a drum.
He burst from the trees, rain and wind whipping at him, turning the blood staining Storm’s jaws pink.
‘What have you done?’ he whispered. ‘They’ll surely kill you now.’ He squeezed his eyes shut, breathed deep as Gar had taught him, then began to run again, down the hill, away from Dun Carreg.
Storm followed, Rafe’s screams fading slowly behind them.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
KASTELL
Kastell blew on his cupped hands, breath misting. He rubbed them together and tugged on his gloves.
‘Mount up,’ he heard Orgull call behind him.
Without a word, the small band of warriors swung into their saddles, Maquin kicking out the last embers of their fire. Kastell looked out over the river, wide and black in the grey of dawn, the merchant barge they were riding guard to being just a darker shadow on its waters. His face tingled as a snowflake drifted lazily onto his cheek. He glanced up, the thin, pale expanse of light high above him a distant reminder of the world beyond the forest.
Orgull set a horn to his lips, blew once, then they waited in silence. Their captain was bald and thick-necked, freakishly strong. His warrior braid was bound into a short beard.
Oars appeared on the barge and dipped into the water, the vessel beginning to move sluggishly downstream. With a jingle of harness Orgull led the warriors on the shore away, keeping pace with the barge, a thin layer of frozen snow crunching under horses’ hooves. Maquin kicked his horse into a canter, catching up with Kastell.
‘It’s not all killing giants, drinking an’ singing songs of glory round a hearth, eh?’ he said, brushing frost from his grey-flecked beard.
‘Huh,’ agreed Kastell.
They were running guard to a merchant barge travelling down the Rhenus, heavily laden with salt and iron from the mines at Halstat. This was what the bulk of being a Gadrai warrior entailed, as the Rhenus was the main trade route between Helveth and Isiltir and for ten leagues or so it coiled its way into the south-western tip of Forn Forest. Anything travelling on the river was highly vulnerable during those tree-shadowed leagues.
Kastell rode along the east bank of the Rhenus, the dangerous side, with a score of Gadrai warriors about him. Each man there had slain at least one giant, most of them more. Half a score more warriors were on the barge, in case any attempted raid got past the riverbank patrol.
In his four moons in the forest Kastell had witnessed two giant attacks, each one turning his guts to water.
Twelve warriors had died in those attacks, and Kastell had slain two more giants, adding two notches on his sword’s scabbard to the one that marked the day he had slain his first. He glanced at Maquin, remembering that day. It seemed so long ago, now.
‘I’d rather this than fight the Hunen any day,’ he said to his friend.
‘Right you are, lad,’ Maquin grunted, eyeing the treeline to their right.
The other task that consumed most of a man’s time in the Gadrai was clearing the east bank of the Rhenus. They were riding on a wide path, thirty or so paces between the riverbank and the treeline painstakingly cleared of any new vegetation or saplings taking root. It was a monumental job, and teams of warriors worked at it all year round. It was backbreaking work, but it was better to be attacked in the open space by giants than in the thick of the forest, and giants were not the only danger. Wolven prowled, though they had mostly learned to stay the other side of the Gadrai’s boundaries. Also draigs, which went where they pleased; bats the size of Kastell’s shield, which would suck the blood from a man, and great armies of ants like the one he had seen in Tenebral, that could strip a man of all flesh in a matter of heartbeats. He tried not to think of the many other, faceless, terrors.
Kastell felt a prickling sensation in his neck and turned to see Maquin staring at him.
‘We’ve been here a while, now. You getting an itch in your toes yet? Or regret coming?’
‘What?’ stuttered Kastell. ‘No. On both counts.’ He smiled at his friend happily, a sensation that was becoming more frequent with each day he had been away from Mikil. ‘My only regret is that I did not listen to you sooner. It was the right thing to do.’
Maquin grinned broadly.
‘Besides, I like it here,’ he added, looking at the river on one side, huge looming trees on the other.
The Gadrai – the warriors that patrolled the river’s borders – had welcomed him, asking no questions of his past other than the details of his giantkilling. They felt just about as close as any kin he had ever known, at least since his mam and da had died. He belonged here, felt happy.
‘Good,’ grunted Maquin, nodding to himself. The old warrior reined his horse in, staring at the treeline. He cocked his head, listening.
‘What is it?’ Kastell whispered, scanning the shadows within the first trees. He
saw nothing.
‘Not sure,’ Maquin grunted. ‘Thought I heard something.’ He shrugged and kicked his horse on.
A faint splash pulled Kastell’s head round. Movement caught his eye, in the river. Something swirled in the murk, ripples spreading in a wide V. He squinted. Whatever it was, it was heading for the barge. Fast.
The other warriors had seen it. Orgull blew on his horn, figures on the barge staring out.
The thing in the water was big, Kastell realized as it pulled alongside the barge, almost matching its length. A warrior threw a spear, but it missed, swallowed by the river. Oars crunched and splintered as whatever it was beneath the surface ploughed into them. Shouts rang out, the barge slewing in the river’s current. Then something reared out of the water, white scales glistening, higher than the barge’s rail. It resembled a snake’s head, but massive. It shot forwards, grabbed a man in its jaws, and dragged him screaming over the rail, his cries cut short as he disappeared beneath the surface.
‘What was that?’ Kastell hissed.
‘A wyrm,’ Maquin said, pulling his spear from its couch.
The waters shifted again, towards the rear of the boat, a grey-white snake surging out of the river, slamming onto the barge’s deck. Its body bunched, seethed out of the water to coil onto the timber deck, then it slithered forwards. Kastell could see figures before it, yelling, brandishing weapons. His sword-brothers. One charged forwards, hacking at the menace with his sword. The snake’s head darted out, lifted the man into the air, began to swallow him. Kastell felt his stomach lurch.
Then another beast was at the front, bursting up in a fountain of black water, making the barge list as it slithered onboard.
‘Elyon help them,’ Maquin whispered. At the head of their column Orgull was yelling something, then a cry went up behind them, from the trees. Kastell twisted to see giants lumber out of the shadows. Some hurled spears. A horse went down in a spray of blood, its rider tumbling into the river.
‘At them,’ Orgull bellowed, kicking his horse at the giants, his longsword sweeping from the scabbard on his back. Kastell dragged his horse in a half-circle, drew his sword and followed. He heard Maquin swearing.
