by John Gwynne
Then Gwenith demanded that he follow and they finally reached Halion. No more than a dozen fought with him, out of of the hundred or so that had filled the hall. Evnis’ warriors had fared little better, though: less than a score of them now fighting to reach Edana and finish the conflict. Corban hefted his da’s hammer and charged, Storm leaping ahead of him, hamstringing a warrior with one snap of her jaws.
Two fell before he reached them, knives jutting from backs, and he remembered who had taught Cywen to throw a knife. He grunted as he swung the hammer – which was in truth too heavy for him – and connected with a man’s lower back instead of his head. That was enough, though. Corban felt bones shatter. He swung again, then his mam was beside him, stabbing a spear into someone’s shoulder and Storm was snarling, ripping, tearing.
Evnis’ warriors tried to turn and face this new threat, but in moments Halion and his fighters had dispatched the distracted, flanked warriors. Corban checked to find Camlin, Marrock and Tarben. He felt a surge of relief when he saw a pale-faced Dath and Farrell. Others were there too, amongst them Brina and Heb at the back, beside a weeping Edana.
Flames still flickered in the firepit, and death and destruction surrounded them on every side. In a shadowed corner beside a shattered table, the sounds of grief were clear in the lull. Corban squinted through the firepit’s flames to see two men kneeling on the ground. One was Mordwyr, Dath’s da. His face was distraught, but the sobbing came from the man next to him – Vonn, cradling Bethan’s limp head in his lap.
The only other movement was at the high table, where Gar still fought, though of the ten eagle-guards only two still stood. Corban took a few paces towards Gar, a handful following, and spreading out about him. As he watched, Gar blocked an overhead strike, and sent his own blade slashing across his opponent’s throat. Then, before that man had fallen, he was sidestepping, turning, and somehow reversing his sword grip to punch it into the stomach of the last guard rushing in behind him.
Gar stood still a moment, then slid his sword free, spun it and changed the grip yet again as his opponent’s body sank to the ground. He finally turned to face Nathair and Sumur.
Sumur stepped forward, slow and graceful, still leaving his sword sheathed on his back. ‘How is it that you are here, sword-brother?’ he said.
Gar made no reply, except to shift his feet.
‘You should answer, when I ask something of you,’ Sumur continued. ‘I am Lord of Telassar, Lord of the Jehar; lord of you, am I not?’
‘Tukul is my lord,’ said Gar.
Sumur shook his head. ‘He was always misguided. Not equipped for this calling. Tell me, where is he? Here, in Dun Carreg? Ardan? Has he just abandoned you?’
‘He would not do that,’ Gar spat.
Sumur shrugged. ‘Whatever you think, your task has failed. Come, sheathe your sword, join me. Look, the Seren Disglair stands before you.’ Sumur gestured to Nathair, who stood tall, regal, and smiled warmly at Gar.
Gar assessed Nathair, contemptuously. ‘That just cannot be,’ he said and his eyes flickered, briefly, to Corban.
Sumur followed his gaze, and stared at Corban, his eyes taking in the wolven beside him. ‘We have much to speak of, you and I,’ he said. ‘Come, sheathe your sword. Join me.’
‘You were ever the honeyed talker,’ Gar said. ‘You may have fooled my father with your false tongue, become lord in his absence, but you never fooled me. Time enough for words when my spirit has crossed the bridge of swords. Until then I shall let my blade speak for me.’ He flexed his wrist, his sword-tip spinning, tracing a circle in the air.
‘So be it,’ Sumur shrugged. ‘When I am done with you I shall carve some answers from your boy and his wolven-cub.’
Faster than Corban could follow, Sumur suddenly had his blade in his hand. He heard rather than saw their first clash, iron ringing out as their swords sparked in a blurred flurry, their bodies spinning. The two men separated, neither breathing hard, and began circling, eyes measuring, assessing, probing. Sumur stopped suddenly, shifted his weight, then rushed in with his sword aloft. Gar spun from the curved blade as it slashed, was already striking at Sumur’s waist, but the warrior was gliding out of range. Again they clashed, swords connecting this time, more strikes than Corban could count, then Gar was crouching low, slashing at Sumur’s ankles, the warrior leaping and striking at Gar’s head. The stablemaster swayed to one side, Sumur’s blade missing him by a hairsbreadth. He twisted towards Sumur, chopped once, twice, then stepped gracefully away.
Sumur paused, glanced down. Two thin red lines had appeared upon him, one along his forearm, the other his chest. They were shallow cuts, of no consequence, but they showed who was the fastest, by the merest fraction.
Corban realized he was holding his breath, mesmerized by the intensity and skill of the contest he was watching. Nothing he had ever seen compared: the Court of Swords between Tull and Morcant appearing as clumsy children to this deadly, vicious offering. He glanced about, and saw all those with him equally absorbed in the life-and-death dance before them. For a moment, all thoughts of the battle still raging beyond the hall’s doors was forgotten.
Clashing iron grabbed his attention again, the two men spinning and swirling like flames. For a moment Corban was unable to tell which was which.
Then one was retreating, backing towards a shape on the floor: his da’s corpse, Corban realized. He uttered an involuntary groan as he recognized it, Buddai still maintaining his solitary guard. The warrior’s foot grazed Thannon’s arm and Buddai’s jaws snapped out and bit into his boot. For a moment, less than a heartbeat, the flutter of an eyelid, that man was off-balance. His opponent’s sword snaked out, and struck a deep gash on his shoulder, then the man was spinning away, out of range. He paused, to feel his injured shoulder and Corban gasped. It was Gar.
Suddenly Corban was terrified for Gar’s life. His confidence, his certainty in Gar’s ability drained away. Gar used a two-handed blade, used both hands, needed both arms, to wield it properly. This was a contest where the minutest change in balance would tip the scales, and both men knew it.
Gar scowled and rolled his shoulders, glancing fleetingly towards Corban. ‘Go,’ he mouthed silently, and Sumur smiled in anticipation.
Slowly Gar stepped away, in the direction of the hall’s main doors, away from Corban, but before he had moved a handful of paces Sumur was lunging forwards.
There was another burst of sword strikes and parries, this time Gar steadily retreating, blocking, not even trying to strike back. Sweat glistened on his brow, as Sumur’s attack became a blur, the warrior sensing the closeness of his victory.
Then men were pouring through the open doors, a fighting mob of both red and grey. They crashed into Gar and Sumur, sweeping them apart.
‘Gar!’ Gwenith screamed. ‘Now. Come now.’
Corban added his voice to hers, though both Gar and Sumur had disappeared from view. Maybe Gar heard them, maybe he had made the decision regardless, but, as those about Corban were preparing to fight again, Gar appeared before them.
‘We need to leave. Now,’ he said. The stablemaster was exhausted and bleeding from his shoulder still, but there was something in his expression that brooked no argument.
Corban nodded. ‘All of us,’ he added, glancing at Halion and the others. Gar just shrugged.
Battle had consumed the hall again. Sumur, Nathair and Evnis were obscured from view by a tide of red-cloaks locked in combat with grey.
They were standing close to the rear of the hall, Halion and his small band of survivors curled protectively around Edana. So far, the renewed battle had not touched them.
‘We must get Edana out of here,’ Halion said, overhearing their words, looking at Gar curiously, as if seeing him for the first time.
‘Aye,’ Corban said. ‘But how?’
‘There is no path through that,’ Halion pointed out, nodding at the battle in the hall, and looked back at the doorway leading into the keep.
&n
bsp; ‘And no path beyond,’ Marrock said. ‘Most of the fortress between here and Stonegate is the same. And Owain holds the gate and bridge.’
All realized what that meant. There was only one known route in or out of Dun Carreg.
‘I know a way,’ Corban blurted, suddenly remembering the tunnels beneath the fortress.
‘You are sure?’ Halion asked.
‘Aye. A secret way.’
‘I say let us go and see,’ said Marrock, ‘not stand here debating its likelihood.’
Halion nodded and galvanized them into action. He gave orders to his remaining fighters, hurried over to the door at the back of the hall, and led the small party through.
Gwenith hesitated at the doorway, looking back at Thannon. Then her expression changed. ‘Cywen.’
Corban tried to think of the last time he had seen his sister. Where was she?
‘We must find Cywen,’ his mam said.
Gar put a hand on her arm. ‘We must get Ban to safety, and hope that we find Cywen along the way. If we don’t, I will come back and find her, once Ban is safe. I promise you.’
‘But . . .’
‘She is brave, resourceful. If any can survive through this, it is her.’ Gar held her gaze. ‘We cannot risk Ban – the sacrifice has already been so great . . .’
Gwenith stared at him. ‘You will come back for her?’
‘On my oath, as soon as Ban is away from here.’
She nodded curtly.
Dath suddenly broke away, running back into the hall where his da knelt in mourning. Corban paused a moment, then followed, with Gar and Farrell close behind.
They caught up with Dath as he reached his da, still bent over the lifeless form of Bethan, cradled in Vonn’s arms.
‘Come, Da, quick,’ Dath gasped. ‘We must leave.’
Mordwyr looked up at him. Gently Dath slipped his arms around his da and tried to lift him. Corban went to help, passing his hammer to Farrell.
‘Leave me here,’ Mordwyr muttered as they hoisted him up, ‘I have nothing left to live for.’
‘Live for me, Da,’ Dath pleaded, ‘or if not, live to avenge Bethan.’
Vonn looked up at that and grimaced.
Mordwyr allowed Dath and Corban to steer him back to the doorway, Vonn following wordlessly. Halion and the others were waiting for them in the dark corridor beyond. Corban and Gar were last to step through the door, Storm squeezing past him. He looked back, into the hall.
‘Da,’ he whispered. Gar bowed his head.
Corban was about to turn away when a movement caught his eye. Nathair and Sumur were dragging Brenin’s corpse to the side. The two men were staring straight at Corban. Corban was caught for a moment, staring back at Nathair. Gar jerked him back and slammed the door shut, dragging a long bench over to wedge against it. ‘Time to mourn when we’re off this rock,’ he said.
Corban nodded, and together they ran down the hallway, Storm loping along behind.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
KASTELL
Kastell paced down a wide, spiralled pathway, the others near him in the dark, as it wound around a black open space. He took a few shuffling paces closer to the pathway’s rim, looked over its edge and saw, far below, the glimmer of blue-tinged light.
The company walked in silence, the only sound the tramping of feet, the creak of leather. There was a heaviness in the air, a musty, old smell, which grew stronger as they walked deeper. Kastell began to feel anxious. Would there be more giants down here? Somehow the battle in the tunnel had felt final; there had been an extra ferocity to the Hunen, as if it were their last stand. But the Hunen were unpredictable. His thoughts returned to the battle amongst the mounds, the creeping mist and ground that had turned to bog. He shivered, recalling warriors sinking to a cold, suffocating death.
Then the ground levelled and he took in the sight ahead.
Warriors were spread before them, giants, kneeling in two great lines. Kastell quickly hefted his sword, then felt foolish.
They were dead. Long dead, the cadaverous warriors held upright by stiff coats of leather and chainmail, gripping axes or war-hammers that were planted into the ground, the butt-end of shafts sunk into small holes dug into the stone. Tall posts with bowls of blue flame interspersed the twinned rows of dead warriors.
Slowly the party moved along the wide road, spreading out. Kastell saw something at the far end, marked by blue flame. He looked suspiciously at the Hunen on either side, half expecting this to be some new form of glamour. Perhaps the skeletal warriors would burst into life and attack them. His skin prickled, feeling as if they were staring at him; but there were only black, sightless holes in their papery faces where once their eyes had been. Wisps of braided hair and moustaches framed gaunt, angular skulls wrapped in taut skin, preserved for Kastell knew not how long.
As he drew closer to the cavernous room’s end he saw Romar ahead. And Kastell finally saw what was placed there.
Upon a wide dais sat a stone chair, a throne, and seated in it was the body of a giant. He wore a coat of iron, made of small plates shaped like leaves, each individually stitched into the leather beneath it. Eerie blue flames flickered on the dull iron, the horsehair-plumed helmet upon its head and upon its greaved boots.
Bony hands gripped the long shaft of an axe, double bladed, with the metal looking different somehow from the iron everywhere else in the hall. It was dark, seeming to suck the torchlight into it rather than reflecting it like the other weapons in the chamber. What was more, Kastell had seen this axe before – in a hall in Mikil, guarded like treasure.
‘My axe,’ Romar breathed.
Alcyon and Calidus swept past Kastell with a score of the Jehar. He looked behind him, and more of the black-clad warriors were spreading about the hall amongst the remnants of the Gadrai and the men of Isiltir.
Alcyon and Calidus approached the dais. Calidus halted and Alcyon stepped up. He gripped the axe, then extracted it tenderly from the cadaver’s skeletal grip. He lifted it before him, a look of awe and rapture upon his face.
‘Hold,’ a voice called out, harsh in the almost reverent silence. ‘That is my axe.’
Alcyon stared at Isiltir’s King, with his small, black eyes. ‘It is Dagda’s axe,’ he said, his low voice almost whispering, though his words carried throughout the hall.
‘Dagda? Who is, was he?’
‘One of the seven forefathers, wielder of the starstone axe,’ Alcyon breathed, as if reciting some ancient rote of law. ‘This axe is one of the seven Treasures.’
‘I know it,’ Romar said. ‘And it is mine. Give it to me.’
‘This belongs to Nathair,’ said Calidus. ‘I claim it, as our only spoils in this, as our reward for aid given. You would not even have reached Haldis, let alone conquered it, without our intervention.’
‘What?’ Romar exclaimed. ‘I think not. You have come here uninvited, joined yourself to our cause when you were not wanted, not needed, and now you seek to take for your own the greatest spoil of this war.’ Romar stepped towards the axe, his challenge clear.
‘I claim this axe as trophy for Nathair, King of Tenebral, our Bright Star, the Seren Disglair,’ Calidus intoned. Kastell frowned, not understanding Calidus’ last words, at the same time seeing their effect on the dark warriors about him, as they readied themselves, somehow.
‘Nathair,’ Romar stuttered. ‘The Seren what? He is but a pup, a kingslayer, and he shall reap no gain from this, earn no coin from our spilt blood. Now,’ he said, turning his gaze upon Alcyon, ‘give that to me.’
‘No,’ Alcyon growled.
Romar placed a foot upon the dais, but Calidus stepped in front of him.
‘Get out of my way,’ Romar said, attempting to shoulder Calidus aside. But the thin man pulled the King round to face him.
Romar tugged against Calidus’ grip. ‘Let go of me,’ he grunted, reaching for his sword hilt, his honour guard moving forwards.
Romar looked up just in time to see Alcyo
n swinging the axe, before it slammed it into his shoulder, cleaving the King from collarbone to ribcage.
There was a moment of absolute silence, then men were running at Calidus and Alcyon, the Jehar moving to protect them. Out of nowhere, battle was now raging all about Kastell, as fierce as when they had faced the Hunen above.
Kastell hefted his sword and shield, and moved instinctively to Maquin, covering his friend’s wounded side as they stared, shocked by the ferocity of the fighting about them.
Even as Kastell watched he saw his Gadrai sword-brothers cut down, their opponents faster and more graceful than any swordsmen he had ever seen, all rivalling Vandil. Orgull battled nearby, slamming one of the Jehar to the ground by sheer brute strength, but another replaced him, easily trading blows with the bald warrior, halting his forward progress towards Romar’s body.
Then a warrior was coming for him, a woman, Kastell realized, her sword held high. Kastell blocked her blow, but the woman used her momentum to sweep around him and swing her sword in a blow that would have hamstrung him if Maquin had not lunged forwards, turning her blade. She rounded on the wounded warrior, instantly seeing his weakness. Kastell blocked her lunge at Maquin, and then she was coming at him again, a flurry of strikes aimed at his head and throat. He fell with a crash onto his back, the Jehar’s sword whistling where his throat had been. Instead of following instinct and rolling away, he rolled towards her, crashing into her legs. She fell and was almost on her feet when his shield smashed into her shoulder, knocking her back down, and Maquin’s sword suddenly chopped into her neck. She jerked once and then was still.
Kastell lay there a moment, grateful, and slightly surprised still to be alive.
He hauled himself up to find battle still raging all about, broken down mostly into little knots of individuals now. Vandil was a blur, his two swords swirling and sparking against a Jehar’s long, curved blade. He spun and struck, one of his swords burying itself in his antagonist’s chest.
