by John Gwynne
‘Favour. Honour,’ Conall spluttered, ‘to nursemaid a child. Why do you treat me so?’
‘I am trying to help you, Con,’ Halion said sharply.
‘This is my last day of it,’ Conall retorted as he turned away. ‘Evnis has offered me a place in his hold. I shall stand under your shadow no longer.’
Halion made to speak, but Conall was gone before he could get the words out.
‘Ach,’ Halion spat, the anger on his face shifting into sadness. He looked at Corban. ‘All my life, it seems, I’ve been trying to help him.’
‘He’s ungrateful,’ Corban said impulsively.
‘No, Ban, he just does not see it as help. Pride blinds him. Maybe it is I that have been wrong.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, you have other things more pressing than my brother’s temper. Cast that spear, lad.’
So Corban did. His first throw was a little high, but he soon had the measure of Halion’s gift and marvelled at the difference it made.
The Field was busy now, and he spotted many familiar faces, bar one. Then Gar too entered the Field, riding Shield, the stallion’s brown and white coat glistening with sweat.
‘Good, then,’ Halion said. ‘We can begin.’
The warrior measured out forty paces from a straw target and marked the spot with his boot-heel. ‘Begin your spear trial, Corban ben Thannon,’ he said loudly. Then, more quietly, ‘Don’t rush it because you have an audience. Wait till you find the place.’
Corban nodded, his mouth suddenly dry.
Setting his feet, he hefted the spear, lifted it to his shoulder and sighted the target. He concentrated on the sounds around him, focusing on the target as he’d been taught, the sounds fading until all that was left was his heartbeat, the weight of the spear and the target before him.
Then he threw.
The spear arced through the air, landing with a thunk about a handspan above the target’s centre.
‘One,’ Halion called out.
Six more times Corban went through this process, allowing himself a smile towards Thannon and his other watchers only after his last throw. Next, Halion approached to present him with a practice sword.
‘I’ll test your forms first, Corban,’ Halion said. ‘No different from what we usually do.’
‘Aye,’ Corban said, feeling better, now, more at ease. He rolled his shoulders and swung the practice blade in some sweeping arcs to loosen the muscles in his back and arm.
Halion set his feet, raised his sword, and Corban attacked. He came at Halion with a high double-handed grip, methodically moving through the forms Halion had taught him, using footwork and sword angles to strike first at the quick-kill areas, throat, heart, groin, then the slow-kill points, then the places that would maim or disable but were not of themselves fatal. He tried to keep all Gar had taught him separate, but parts of the sword dance would creep into his attacks, usually making his movements more fluid. One strike would flow into another, reducing the response time of his foe.
This was not at all like the Darkwood, where death had hovered close, but where instinct had overcome his fear. Here he was enjoying himself. He felt himself smiling, a kind of fierce joy taking hold of him as he struck at Halion faster and faster, making the new first-sword of Ardan work hard. Halion moved with a grace all of his own, though, and although he was hard-pressed the warrior’s guard was not broken.
There was a momentary lull as Corban realized he had passed through all of the forms. Halion stepped back a pace, raised his hand and grinned at Corban. ‘That was well done,’ he said, then marched over to a weapons rack, returning with a battered shield for Corban.
Corban saw that quite a crowd had gathered around him, faces recognizable as he glanced around: Evnis and Vonn, Helfach and Rafe. They were all staring, most with surprise on their faces, even Thannon and Dath. Corban frowned, not sure what had just happened. He caught Dath’s eye then, and saw something in his friend’s face – awe? Then he was slipping his left arm into the shield-straps and preparing for the second half of the sword trial.
This time Halion did the attacking, testing Corban’s defensive skills, and Corban found himself more hard-pressed. Gar had never used a shield, so Halion had taught him all he knew here. Still, he did well, blocking the attacks, though many of them only just, and soon his left arm was numb as blow after blow shivered through it into flesh and bone. A few times he almost stepped into an attack of his own, the urge instinctive and close to overwhelming, wanting to use both sword and shield as a weapon; but he resisted, remembering this was a defensive test.
In time, Halion stepped back. ‘We are done here,’ the warrior declared.
Now Corban retrieved his spear and he saw Gar leading Shield out towards him.
This is it, he thought. The running mount, and then his warrior trial was finished, only the Long Night left before he passed fully into manhood. He felt his breath catch. He had become lost in the trial, in the moments of spear, sword, shield, strike and block, but now the enormity of it settled upon him again.
Focus, he told himself. Get this wrong and he could not say what would be worse: broken bones or the humiliation of it happening before the gathered strength of Ardan.
He rubbed the sweat from his palms, and gripped the spear more tightly. Gar was watching him keenly, waiting for his signal. At his nod, the stablemaster clicked his tongue, and set Shield into a gentle trot. Gar kept pace for a few strides, then the stallion broke into a canter and headed for Corban.
Corban hefted shield and spear and set his feet as the stallion approached, hooves sending tremors beneath Corban’s feet. He began to move, then Shield drew level and Corban increased his pace, feeling the timing of the canter as his own blood and muscle pumped to match the horse’s stride. Suddenly the rhythm was right and he angled in, reaching out with his shield-hand, grabbed a fistful of the stallion’s mane, and used the horse’s momentum to launch himself into the air.
There was a heartbeat that felt like an eternity as his feet left the ground. He was completely weightless, airborne, his body arcing up, legs scissoring, then, with a satisfying thump he landed in the saddle. Shield didn’t even break stride.
He sat there a moment, feeling Shield’s muscles bunch and expand beneath him, could hear only his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, then he was punching the air with shield and spear, the cold air whipping tears from his eyes. Distantly he heard noise, looked around to see people calling out to him, cheering, banging spears on shields. His eyes searched the crowd and found his da, who was grinning till he looked like his face would split. Corban raised a clenched fist to the blacksmith, and whooped with joy, then called to Storm.
The wolven bounded away from Thannon to run alongside Shield, matching the stallion’s speed as Corban urged it into a gallop, turf spraying from its hooves. He held the reins easily, relaxing into Shield’s rhythm. His eyes searched the crowd for Gar. The stablemaster inclined his head.
Brenin marched onto the Field, accompanied by his retinue and the Tenebral guests. They stared as he galloped past, Storm loping beside him. Briefly he saw Nathair’s eyes fix in surprise on the wolven, before their eyes met. The world seemed to contract suddenly. The shadow was there again, a darkness that hovered about the King of Tenebral. Corban felt scared, suddenly, then he was past them and pulling on the reins to head back to Halion. He looked for Gar again but couldn’t see him; he refused to dwell on the words he had heard yestereve which came unbidden to his mind.
He slipped from the saddle before Halion, glowing before his approving nod, then Thannon was beckoned forward, his bulk looming over both of them. He unwound a sword from a cloth wrapping, and offered it to his son. Corban sank to one knee to complete the ceremony.
‘Corban ben Thannon,’ Halion called. ‘You came to the Field a bairn, you leave it as a warrior, as a man. Rise,’ he said, his hand touching Corban’s elbow, ‘and take your sword.’
Corban stood, took his gift and gasped as he looked closer. The
pommel was dark iron, carved into the head of a snarling wolven. His eyes flickered to his da’s face, saw joy in the blacksmith’s eyes as well as tears.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered, the blade hissing as he drew it from the leather scabbard. He held up the sword, sunlight turning it momentarily into a white flame, just like in the tales.
‘Hold tight to your blade,’ Halion said, ‘and hold as tight to truth and courage. Now make your oath.’
‘I pledge my arm, my mind, my soul, my strength in service of the two: King and Kin.’ He drew his sword across his palm, dripping blood from a clenched fist onto the ground. ‘I swear this by my heart, seal it with my blood,’ Corban said.
Thannon grinned at him.
Cheers rang out from the crowd – a huge crowd now, all staring at him as if something special was happening – and then Thannon swept Corban into a bear-like embrace.
Cool shadow replaced bright sunshine as Corban rode under the arch of Stonegate, Storm an almost silent presence behind him.
The sun was dipping into the west, sending long shadows stretching out before him as Corban rode across Dun Carreg’s bridge. When he reached the giantsway he set his back to the Baglun. He was riding to find a spot to sit his Long Night, and all the land between him and the Baglun felt too familiar. He wanted it to feel new, as everything else on this day of days had been.
He rode until the world about him was grey, shrinking before the red glow of the setting sun behind him. He finally reined Shield in before a dell, a boulder of dark granite offering some shelter from the sharp wind that rolled in from the coast. He dismounted, feeling the slap of the still-unfamiliar blade on his hip as he did so, and spent a long moment admiring his weapons. After tending to Shield it was a good while later before he was settled next to a small fire, looking up at the moon, which cast a pale glow across the land.
He felt exhausted, the excitement of the day finally waning and allowing him to consider Gar’s ominous words. This talk of leaving Dun Carreg scared him. It was only at the thought of leaving it that he realized how much he loved this place and the people. His friends were here, and so was his heart. No. He was not leaving. No matter what his mam or Gar said, no matter what history Gar shared with Sumur. He was a warrior now, a man. He could do as he chose. His hand crept up to the braid that was now in his hair – his warrior braid, put there by his mam and Cywen that afternoon, bound with a thin strip of leather.
Halion had honoured him, requesting his warrior trial and Long Night be brought forward, but there was practicality in the decision, too. They were as good as at war with Rhin, and soon the warriors of Ardan would ride against Cambren. Every arm that could wield a sword would be needed.
He felt a fluttering of fear at that thought. Riding to war, but pushed it down. It would be better by far than leaving.
Instinctively he reached for the hilt of his sword and curled his fingertips around the hilt. It was a big sword, longer than was usual, with a hand-and-a-half grip. After much deliberation with his da he had decided upon this. Because of his training with Gar he favoured a two-handed blade, but that would rule out a shield, which he did not want to do. This way he almost had the reach of a two-handed sword, but – largely due to his uncounted toiling in his da’s forge, as well as his training with Gar over the last two years – he had the strength to wield it like a shorter, lighter blade, and so could use it with a shield.
Soon his eyes began to droop. But the Long Night was to be spent in unsleeping vigil. He stirred himself with another memory of the day, an unwelcome one. Nathair. All over the fortress people were gossiping about the King of Tenebral. He was both handsome and pleasant, so was becoming increasingly popular. But there was something about him that nagged at Corban. And every time he saw him there was that shadow, a presence . . .
Seeing things that are not there is the first sign of madness, he chided himself, at least that’s what Brina has told me. Still, that shadow . . .
He shivered.
Strange, unnerving sounds drifted on the night breeze. But Storm slept undisturbed. He blew into his cupped hands. It was cold, the sea breeze adding a bite to the already chilly air. He reached for a blanket from his pack.
I’ll just sit for a while, he thought, until the blanket chases the chill from my bones.
With a start he woke, stiff all over. It was still dark, though there was a touch of grey in the sky, the stars fainter. His small fire had long since burned out, but he could see Storm and Shield, so dawn must be close. Deciding movement was better than staying still, he quickly collected his things together and began saddling Shield up. He felt guilty at dozing off on his Long Night and wondered if he should tell Halion.
Everything was done, Corban just slipping his spear into its leather couch on his saddle when Storm suddenly lifted her head, looked down the slope and growled.
Corban froze and followed the wolven’s gaze.
A rider burst from the trees, splashed across the stream and galloped for the giantsway. He reined in when he saw Corban, turning his frothing mount in a tight circle.
‘Have any others got through?’ he said, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper.
‘What do you mean?’ Corban asked, hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
‘Messengers from Badun,’ the man grunted.
‘No. No one.’
The man swore, spat on the ground and glanced over his shoulder. ‘You must ride, they cannot be far behind,’ the man urged. ‘Badun has fallen.’
‘What? But . . .’ Corban said.
‘Ride. There is no time,’ the man snapped, then dug his heels into his horse, spurring it on.
Corban watched the rider disappear over the ridge, then noise from the valley bottom drew his attention.
Mounted figures emerged from the woodland, a dozen or so, warriors, by their couched spears. Corban frowned. There was something wrong about their movements, something furtive.
Then there was movement on the ridge of the far slope, perhaps a league away, maybe less. A dark line appeared on the giantsway: riders, a wide column, framed by a pale strip of light that preceded the coming sun. They were moving quickly towards him. Either side of the road more figures spilt over the ridge, moving like a dark stain across the land, spears and rippling banners silhouetted briefly against the lightening sky.
Corban just stared, watching. Then the rim of the sun appeared on the horizon and a host of spear-tips caught the first rays, sparking into light like a thousand candles. A war-host crawled across the slope towards him, a sea of red-cloaked warriors, the bull of Narvon snapping on countless banners.
Owain had come.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CORBAN
Corban mounted Shield and guided the horse up the embankment to the giantsway. He looked once more at the host creeping towards him, his gaze flickering to the scouts picking their way down the slope towards the stream. As he watched, one of them signalled to the others, and pointed at him. His heart lurched as he kicked Shield into a gallop, voices rising behind him and the sound of hooves splashing through water.
He rode Shield hard, his heart pounding, and panic building.
Eventually Brina’s cottage came into view, Dun Carreg a tall blur on the horizon in the still hazy light of dawn.
He reined Shield in, the horse blowing great gouts of breath in the cold morning air. Further ahead he saw a dust cloud marking the rider he had spoken to entering the village. He urged Shield towards Brina’s cottage.
The healer was bent over her herb patch, tugging at a clump of hawkweed as Corban pounded up to her.
‘Quick!’ he cried. ‘We must go.’
‘What?’ Brina snapped, scowling at the hawkweed that clearly did not want to leave the ground. ‘Has one night alone in the dark unhinged your mind completely?’
‘Owain’s war-host, thousands coming,’ Corban uttered breathlessly. ‘A league or so back, but his scouts are not far behind me.’
Brina stared at him
a moment, then shoved herself to her feet and bustled inside her cottage, calling to Craf.
‘Hurry!’ Corban yelled, and in moments Brina appeared in her doorway, a sack over her back, the crow flapping behind her, squawking a protest.
Surprising Corban with her agility, Brina pulled herself up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist and then Shield was moving through the alder glade. Corban looked to the east and saw a line of riders strung across the road, moving quickly, more than the dozen scouts he had seen earlier.
He dug his heels into Shield’s ribs, Craf a black smudge in the sky above him, and Storm running at his side. He cut across meadow to join the giantsway and set his face to Havan, bent low in the saddle, urging Shield on.
When he reached the village he shouted a warning as he rode through the streets to the roundhouse. But the rider had already spread the word and there were people everywhere, most of them making for the road that led up to the fortress. Corban made his way to Dath’s home, jumped from his saddle and pounded on the door. Bethan pulled it open, a scowl on her face, but her words failed when she saw Corban’s expression.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said.
‘Owain is attacking, you don’t have long. Where’s Dath?’
‘Here, Ban,’ his friend said, appearing behind his sister.
‘We have to go.’ Corban grabbed Bethan’s shoulder, but she pulled back.
‘Da . . .’ she said.
‘Where is he?’
‘Back there,’ Dath said, nodding into his home.
‘Show me.’
Mordwyr was snoring in his cot, a jug of usque in his arms. It proved impossible to rouse him, until Brina pushed her way in and emptied a jug of cold water over his head. That and her scolding served to wake Mordwyr enough that he could stagger from their home, Corban leading him, and Dath balancing him from behind.
Corban told Brina and Bethan to take Shield and ride on ahead. He and Dath led the staggering fisherman through the village and joined a growing line of people making their way up the steep path to Dun Carreg. They paused a little way up, to look back over the village.
