by John Gwynne
‘You,’ the big man whispered, eyes widening.
‘Tull,’ Scar said, dipping his head as if to an old friend.
‘So this is Rhin’s doing.’ He nodded to himself, taking note of the red cloaks. ‘Didn’t think Uthan and Owain had the stomach for this kind of work.’ He snorted. ‘Ready for your second lesson?’
Scar smiled, a thin, humourless thing. ‘Much as I’d like to, I fear I will have to decline,’ he said. ‘You think me a fool? With your tactics? One last trick, eh? Every second counts, does it not, when an escape is underway?’
Tull shrugged, then launched himself at Scar.
‘Braith,’ Scar shouted, and the woodsman slipped his bow from his back, nocked an arrow and loosed it.
Tull grunted, the arrow sticking from his gut. He snarled, stumbled forwards, raising his sword.
The next arrow took him in the shoulder, spinning him round. He righted himself, took another step forwards, then sank to one knee.
Scar strode up and smashed his sword into Tull’s, knocking the man’s blade from his weakening grip. He stood over the kneeling man a moment, sword pointed at Tull’s heart, then sank the blade almost to its hilt in his chest.
Tull coughed, blood filling his mouth, then Scar tugged his sword free.
‘Here endeth the lesson,’ Scar said, looking down at the dead man, then went to find Braith.
Camlin looked away. The man had had courage, and more to spare. He hadn’t deserved those last arrows. Life isn’t fair, you fool, thought you’d learned that by now.
Then the band of men slipped into the trees after their quarry, leaving their dead comrades in the silent glade.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
EVNIS
Evnis looked out from the battlements of Uthandun and watched the last members of Queen Alona’s party disappear into the forest. Not long now. He felt a spike of fear, knew he was risking everything, now, with the next play of the dice. But it still felt good. He stood there a long while, then headed back down through the streets, down a shadowed alley, then through a door into a deserted house.
He sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes and sent his thoughts within himself. ‘Athru mise, folaigh mise, cloca mise, talamh bri,’ he muttered. There was a tremor, as if the very earth and air rippled. He staggered slightly, then pulled out a brightly polished bronze mirror to check the results of his incantation. The face of another, younger, man stared back at him now, skin unlined, with full, fleshy lips. He almost laughed in amazement at his own glamour, then reached for the package he had left the night before. A few moments later he emerged from the house holding a thick-shafted spear, wearing an iron helm and a red cloak.
He smiled at the guards on the keep door, who grunted a greeting and let him pass unquestioned. Uthandun was full of red-cloaked warriors at the moment, a large honour guard having arrived with Owain from Dun Cadlas, so one more did not stand out.
He walked purposefully through the keep, mounting the stairs to Uthan’s chambers until he faced the guard at his door. He continued smiling even as he rammed his spear-tip into the man’s throat. Evnis caught him as he fell and lowered him gently, dragging the body into a shadowed alcove.
Uthan was a serious young man, he had discovered, old before his years and feeling the weight of leadership on his young shoulders. He was often alone in his chambers, and so Evnis found him. He was looking out of his window as Evnis slipped in through the door.
‘Is it time already?’ Narvon’s heir said when he heard the door open and close, still lost in thought.
When no one answered, Uthan looked round, but it was already too late. Evnis grabbed Uthan’s hair, raking a knife across his throat in one brutal movement.
Evnis stood there a moment, shaking from the sudden violence of the moment. He wiped his knife on Uthan’s shirt and gazed at the view recently admired by the Prince. A distant rider was moving erratically away from the Darkwood. Braith has done his job well, if that is one of Alona’s guards. Time to get out of here.
He sheathed his knife, and exchanged the red cloak for another in his bag.
The new cloak was grey.
He gathered his energies, then began to sing, soft and quiet. The air rippled about him and he staggered. When he looked into his bronze mirror the face of Marrock stared back.
He walked calmly through the keep, exiting past the two red-cloaked guards.
‘Can I help you, friend?’ one of them said.
He shook his head, made sure they got a good look at him, then spun on his heel so that his grey cloak swirled out behind him, and left quickly.
He kept the glamour upon him until he was almost at the gates, then slipped into an alley to muster his power and reverse the transformation.
Vonn was waiting for his father, sitting a horse and holding the reins of another. His son was frowning at him, whether because he finally suspected something or because they had recently argued about the fisher girl again, he did not know. He would have to sit down with his son soon, bring him into the world that Evnis was walking. But not yet. He was not convinced that Vonn’s youthful idealism had matured into something more practical, or where his ultimate allegiance would lie.
He spotted the distant rider, closer now, swaying unstably in his saddle – and he wore a grey cloak. Definitely one of Alona’s guards.
‘Ride to Pendathran in the camp. Tell him Queen Alona has been attacked in the forest, that he should muster some warriors and ride out fast but without drawing attention. I shall take the wounded rider to Brenin and organize our evacuation. Owain is about to strike.’ Vonn stared at him, looking uncertain, then galloped for help.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CORBAN
Corban walked through the glade of corpses. This was the band he had seen ride out – Queen Alona, Edana, Cywen flashed through his mind and he started frantically searching the glade, panic rising to choke him.
Gar was ahead of him, checking faces, kneeling, checking for signs of life. He stopped near the centre of the glade, beside a familiar body, an open space around it ringed with red-cloaked corpses.
Corban gasped as he reached Gar’s side and saw the man on the ground.
Tull.
The warrior’s lifeless eyes gazed past him, up at the blue sky above.
Storm nudged his hand.
‘Cywen was with them,’ Corban mumbled, ‘and Queen Alona, Edana . . .’ he felt his stomach heave and swallowed, trying not to be sick.
‘Keep searching,’ Gar said, moving amongst the dead.
Corban forced himself to look, battling the fear of what, of who he might find. Eventually he joined Gar by a great oak at the edge of the glade, Gar staring at a narrow, trampled track that led into the trees.
‘They are not here,’ Corban said.
‘No,’ Gar agreed.
‘What happened here?’ Corban whispered.
‘Our Queen was ambushed. By King Owain’s men – though that does not make sense,’ Gar murmured. ‘We are at their mercy at Uthandun.’ He rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘Anyway, Alona is not here. She and some others escaped. Fled this way, I think. Or they were taken.’
‘We must follow them, help them,’ Corban said.
Gar looked at him, frowning. ‘I will follow the trail, Ban, but you must go back. Brenin must be told and help must be sent.’
‘What? No. Cywen is out there,’ he said.
‘No, Ban. It is too dangerous. And I will need help. There are too many of them for you or I.’ He shrugged. ‘You must go back.’
Corban glared at the stablemaster, who returned his gaze calmly. They stood there in silence long moments, then the sound of mounted warriors filtered into the glade, growing quickly louder.
Men poured into the clearing, two score at least, all in the grey of Ardan. Pendathran rode at their head.
Storm moved closer to Corban and leaned into his hip and leg, growling quietly.
Pendathran leaped from his horse and cried out when he
saw Tull’s corpse. He took a moment, then focused on Gar and Corban, taking in Storm’s presence.
‘Why are you here?’ he said harshly. ‘With that wolven too.’ Behind him warriors were checking the fallen, spreading through the glade. Corban saw Marrock kneel beside Tull, and other warriors gathered around their fallen leader, Halion amongst them.
‘We were in the forest, heard the sounds of battle,’ Gar said.
‘Where are Alona and Edana? What did you see?’
‘What you see,’ Gar said with a sweep of his hand. ‘This is as we found it.’
‘So where are they?’ Pendathran demanded.
‘I think they fled, this way.’ Gar pointed into the trees. ‘Fled, or were taken.’
Marrock joined them, stepped lightly into the trees and nodded to Pendathran. ‘What would you have us do, Uncle?’ the huntsman asked.
‘We must split,’ he said. ‘If there is any hope of saving Alona we must grasp it. But this . . .’ he glowered around the glade. ‘This speaks of further mischief. If King Owain is moving against King Brenin, he will be in grave danger.’
He was suddenly all business. ‘Marrock. Choose some men – ones that can move quickly, and will be up for a fight at the end of it. I will go back to Uthandun. If King Owain has not yet struck I am taking Brenin back to Ardan. Now.’ He squeezed Marrock’s shoulder. ‘Look after yourself, and do all you can to get my sister back,’ he said gruffly. ‘If you are successful, make for the giantsway, but towards Ardan, not Narvon. We will try to meet you on the road. And Owain will pay dearly for this.’
Marrock wasted no time, calling out names. In moments a dozen men stood about him, Halion and Conall amongst them.
‘I am coming with you,’ Corban suddenly blurted.
‘No,’ Gar snapped.
Marrock shook his head.
‘Cywen. My sister is with them. I am coming.’ The thought of just running away was unbearable. He had to do something. Cywen was out there, scared.
‘No, lad. You are not a warrior yet,’ Marrock said, almost gently. ‘It will be no place for you.’
‘But . . .’ he looked about, could think only of Cywen running through the forest. ‘Wait – Storm can track them. She would lead us straight to Cywen. You’d not need to search for a trail, just follow her. It will speed your task.’
Marrock looked from Corban to the wolven and frowned.
‘If there is a chance of finding Alona more quickly,’ Pendathran said, preparing to leave, ‘take it.’
Marrock nodded.
‘But, boy,’ Pendathran said, ‘make sure that wolven does not bite any man of mine, or I’ll string you up myself.’
‘Aye,’ Corban said.
‘Farewell,’ Pendathran shouted as he left the glade, his warriors following in a burst of noise and speed.
‘Take this, Ban,’ Gar said quietly, passing him a sword, taken from one of the dead.
Corban just stared at it, then clumsily strapped it on, adjusting the scabbard on its belt.
Gar shuffled amongst the fallen around Tull, took up another weapon and belted it around his own waist.
‘You’re not coming, cripple,’ Conall said.
Gar glanced at him and said nothing, just continued strapping on the sword-belt. He loosened the blade in its scabbard.
‘Cripple, I’m talking to you,’ Conall said, louder, but Gar just walked over to stand beside Corban and Storm.
Conall strode over and grabbed Gar’s shoulder roughly. ‘You’ll answer me when I speak to you – and you’ll not be coming with us,’ Conall repeated.
‘I think I will,’ said Gar.
‘You’ll slow us. Take the sword off and hobble back to Uthandun, with all the other women.’ Conall was visibly furious.
‘I’ll go where the lad goes,’ Gar said calmly and rolled his shoulders, his neck clicking.
‘You’ll slow us,’ Conall repeated, stepping closer to Gar, almost nose to nose.
‘No need to slow your pace for me,’ Gar said. ‘If I fall behind, I fall behind.’
‘Leave it, Conall,’ Marrock grunted. ‘Gar’s right, if he can’t match our pace he’ll just fall behind. There’s no harm, no danger in that.’
Conall eyed Gar a moment longer, then nodded.
‘Right, lad,’ Marrock said. ‘Let’s see how good your wolven’s nose is. Lead the way.’
Corban bent down to Storm. ‘Cywen, Storm. Cywen. Seek.’
The wolven set off immediately, loping into the trees. Corban followed her, Marrock and a dozen warriors behind him, Gar leaving the glade last of all.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CYWEN
Cywen blinked sweat from her eyes and staggered over a tree root. Ronan reached out and steadied her.
‘Keep moving,’ the young warrior said, glancing back over his shoulder. The forest behind them was empty, at least it appeared empty. They had been running for what seemed an eternity, Cywen losing all track of time, but she was sure the forest had grown darker, the shadows deeper, so it must be approaching sunset? They would be safer once it was darker. Harder to track, surely? She looked at Ronan, his red hair sweat soaked and plastered to his head, face gaunt with worry. She nodded and forced her legs to move, her lungs burning. Edana was only a little ahead, flitting amongst thick foliage, so she tried to increase her speed.
Her world shrank to the space in front of her, focusing on every step, avoiding every moss-covered boulder, concentrating on not losing her companions.
She could not believe what had happened. What was King Owain thinking? Was this a bid to conquer Ardan? And what about those still at Uthandun – King Brenin, her mam and da, Corban, Gar . . .
The idea of them dying, of her not seeing them again, hit her hard. She felt sick to her stomach and staggered. The figures she was following slowed, then stopped. Like Cywen, they were all too breathless for speech.
Ronan and the other warrior – Ised, she remembered – conferred in sharp whispers, Ised pointing into the forest.
‘Do you . . . think . . . they . . . will . . . follow us?’ Edana said, between gasps for breath.
Ronan bit back an answer.
‘Of course,’ Queen Alona said. ‘Owain has crossed a line. He will not just give up, now. Darkness is our best hope – if we can keep ahead of them, reach the road . . .’
Birds squawked in the forest, back the way they had come.
‘Better be moving,’ Ronan said. ‘Ised is a woodsman, best if he leads us. I’d only get us lost.’ He smiled, weakly. ‘I’ll watch our backs.’
Ised set off, Alona and Edana close behind him. As Cywen gathered her breath and her will Ronan gripped her wrist. ‘If it comes to a fight, stay close to me. I am oathsworn to Edana, but I . . .’ He looked down. ‘I would see no harm come to you. Stay close to me.’
She smiled, here, in the midst of the Darkwood, death breathing down their necks, and yet she felt such a rush of joy. She leaned forward and brushed her lips on his freckled cheek. ‘I’ll do that,’ she whispered, then set off after the others.
They ploughed on, then there was movement at the edge of her vision, the sound of drumming feet.
‘Run,’ Ronan hissed, pushing her on.
Panic consumed her and she pounded into the forest – their pursuers were closing in. All of them sped up, though soon the sounds of pursuit grew even louder behind them. Cywen checked her belt for the the hilts of her last two knives.
‘It is no good,’ said Ronan, ‘they will be on us in moments.’
Ised heard him and pulled up before a thick-trunked elm. ‘We’ll make a stand here,’ he grunted, breathing heavily.
‘Behind us,’ Ronan said. He and Ised drew their swords and stood together, facing the shadows.
Cywen pulled a knife and glanced at Queen Alona and Edana.
Movement caught her eye, a figure, coming at them fast. She aimed and hurled her knife, hearing it thunk into wood. She whispered a curse and drew her last knife, then all was chaos.
Warriors surged out of the darkness and targeted Ised and Ronan. A man screamed and fell at Ronan’s feet, his lifeless head flopping close to Cywen. She stared at his dull eyes.
Ised grunted and dropped to one knee, then a blade chopped into his neck and he toppled sideways.
Edana screamed.
A red-cloaked warrior advanced on Ronan, others emerging from the gloom, all with swords drawn. Ten, twelve, more – Cywen counted. We are dead.
‘Hold,’ a voice shouted, and the man before Ronan paused, though he didn’t lower his sword.
Two stepped forward, one younger, with a scar under his eye. Cywen gasped, recognizing them both. Rhin’s champion that had duelled with Tull on Midwinter’s Eve. Morcant. What is he doing here? And the other man was Braith – she would never forget his face after that night at Dun Carreg.
‘We could use this one,’ Braith said to Morcant. ‘Better the message reach Brenin from one of his own warriors than one of ours.’
Morcant had a sword drawn, but held loosely. He paused.
A message. Please, Elyon, let them spare Ronan, let them send him to Brenin.
Morcant looked between Ronan and Braith, Ronan shifting his feet, a quiver in his sword arm.
Suddenly Morcant exploded into motion, faster than Cywen could follow. Iron grated on iron, Ronan twisting and shouting, then he was sinking, blood gushing from his throat. It took a moment to register in Cywen’s mind, then she screamed and grabbed for him. She pressed a hand to his neck,trying to stem the flow, but blood poured through her fingers. No, no, no, no, no! she screamed inside, his weight pushing her to the ground, where she held his head in her lap. His eyes looked up into hers, blinked once and then became dull, sightless. She felt a confusion of rage and grief. Then she hurled herself at Morcant, stabbing with the knife she still clutched in one hand.
Morcant jumped back and swore as she stabbed him, the knife turning on his chainmail shirt. He clubbed her with the back of his hand and she fell to the ground, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth.
