by John Gwynne
‘She’s a healer, not a witch,’ Cywen said, but still looked apprehensively down the empty road as they continued to the paddock to see the foal.
‘What are you going to call him, Corban?’ Edana asked as they reached mother and foal.
‘I don’t know yet. Gar said I shouldn’t rush his naming, that I should wait until something fits him.’
The colt looked up, towards the road, then bolted.
Cywen saw two figures duck under the paddock rail. At first she could not make out who they were, the sun sinking low in the sky now, then one of the figures shouted and she saw a flash of blond hair.
It was Rafe, his fellow bully Crain behind him.
‘Oh no,’ she heard her brother whisper.
The mare looked at the new arrivals, then trotted after her foal. Cywen rose and walked towards Rafe. Her companions followed her, Edana pulling up the hood of her cloak.
‘Look,’ cried Rafe, ‘it’s Cywen the brave and her cowardly brother.’ Crain laughed loudly, staggering a little.
‘Usque,’ muttered Dath, sniffing.
Crain lifted a clay jug to his lips and slurped noisily, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Want some?’
Dath shook his head.
‘See, I told you it was them,’ said Rafe, slapping Crain across the chest. He bowed low, arms outstretched. ‘I wanted to thank you for your gift, Corban. The finest practice sword I have ever had the pleasure of using,’ Rafe said, holding the wooden sword high.
‘I am glad you like it,‘ Corban said. Cywen frowned. Ban had never mentioned anything about a practice sword to her.
‘The spoils of war,’ Rafe gloated.
‘You’re a thief and you should give it back, if you have any honour,’ Dath muttered.
‘Honour? And this from a fisherman’s son,’ Rafe said. ‘Well, not even that any more, eh? Just a drunk’s son, now, aren’t you. Your da give you that mark on your cheek?’
Dath’s fists bunched, then Edana pulled down the hood of her cloak.
Rafe took an involuntary step backwards. ‘W-what’re you doing here? With . . .’ he trailed off, gesturing to Cywen, Corban and Dath.
‘You should not be so quick to insult people about their father’s habits when your own bruises have only just healed,’ Edana said.
Rafe’s empty hand jerked towards his cheek, stopping halfway. He opened his mouth to speak but Edana carried on.
‘And did you steal that practice sword from Corban? If so, you must return it. Immediately.’
‘I did not steal it,’ he said, spitting the words out. ‘I won it, in a contest. If he wants it back he must earn it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cywen said, her anger rising.
‘I mean,’ Rafe said, turning his head to smirk at her, ‘that if your brave brother wants his stick back, he will have to complete a task.’
‘What task?’ she asked.
Rafe tapped his chin a moment, then a smile spread across his face.
‘He must sneak into the healer’s cottage, and bring me a trophy as evidence.’
‘Oh, that’s ridiculous,’ Edana said. Dath sucked in a deep breath.
‘I’ll do it,’ Corban blurted.
‘No,’ said Cywen and Dath together.
‘You know what she can do to people, Ban. She could put a spell on you, or, or, take your soul, or something,’ Dath said.
Cywen saw her brother’s gaze shift fleetingly to Edana, then his shoulders rose as he drew a deep breath.
‘I shall do it to win my practice sword back, and to prove that I am no coward.’
‘Good,’ Rafe cried, laughing. ‘Come, then. We shall wait nearby while you brave the witch’s lair.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
VERADIS
Veradis galloped through the gates of Jerolin, hard on the trail of Prince Nathair.
After the disagreement with his father, the Prince had stormed from the tower and headed straight for the stables, Veradis following. He had seized a fully harnessed horse from a stable boy and ridden from the fortress. Veradis had taken a little longer to organize a mount but caught up on the road that skirted the lake, both of their mounts blowing hard. They slowed to a canter.
‘My father . . .’ Nathair said after a while, ‘he speaks of truth and honour, of championing Elyon against the darkness of Asroth, and yet he cannot see his own dishonour. Cannot or will not. He is so consumed with this alliance. And he fawns at that worm’s feet like a newborn puppy.’
‘Worm?’ Veradis said.
‘Counsellor Meical,’ Nathair growled. ‘Honour. Father has always spoken so highly of it to me, how it must be the foundation of all actions and decisions. And yet, when it comes down to it, my honour, my oath, seems to count for nothing. I know the Vin Thalun have been Tenebral’s enemy in the past, but I gave my word.’
‘I agree with you,’ Veradis said. ‘Although I can also understand the King doubting the Vin Thalun. I have lived on the coast, Nathair, and we feel the corsairs’ bite more often than you. That they would just stop is difficult to imagine.’
Nathair nodded, took a deep breath.
‘We are on the brink of a new age, Veradis, where much will be swept away and much will change, as my father so readily tells me. Yet when it comes to it he is not quite so willing to embrace that change. All he can think of is this council and of forging this league. He has dreamed and imagined it as he hopes for it to be for so long that he does not see the truth of how it really is. And these,’ Nathair snorted, gesturing at the banners rippling around the fortress, ‘they are only here to serve themselves. They cannot see beyond their own borders. How can my father imagine they would unite with him? Better to rule them than bicker with them. If the need is as great as my father believes then we cannot risk these fickle kings. They change their minds with the wind. What then?’ He was looking at Veradis again.
‘I don’t know,’ Veradis said. ‘I have spent more time with my sword and spear than I have in my father’s council chamber. There seems much wisdom in what you say. But we must trust our king, must we not. What else is there?’
Nathair looked intently at Veradis and slowly nodded.
‘What do you think of this God-War?’ Veradis asked. He could hardly believe the talk of the council. He liked the old tales well enough, and knew that there was truth in the stories of the Giant Wars, and the earth showed the signs of Elyon’s Scourging, plain as the back of his hand. But a war between Asroth and Elyon – he could not even imagine it.
‘I believe in the Gods, if that is what you mean. As to this book that Meical brings us. Much as I dislike him, perhaps it is true. There is much I don’t understand, but some of it – the giant-stones have wept blood, have they not? That cannot be denied. And Brenin had a wyrm’s head in a sack . . .’
‘True enough,’ Veradis muttered, feeling a shiver sweep him at the memory of Meical reading those words from the book.
‘Midwinter’s Day,’ he said. ‘When day shall become night. That will decide it in most minds. But my father believes it now, without any doubt.’ Nathair glanced sidelong at Veradis. ‘As do I. For my own reasons.’
‘What reasons?’ Veradis asked.
‘Another time.’
They had reached the point where the road forked, and saw a stream of people hurrying from the lakeside village into the forest. Veradis leaned down and beckoned to a young boy.
‘Where is everybody going?’
‘There’s a strange sight in the forest,’ the boy replied breathlessly.
‘What sight?’
‘Creatures, I don’t know.’ The boy shrugged as Veradis dismissed him. Veradis looked at Nathair, who raised an eyebrow and with a click of his tongue urged his horse into the forest. They passed many of the crowd on foot, and soon they rode into a wide, open glade and pushed to the front.
There the ground was black, seething with frantic movement.
They were ants. Thousands of t
hem, thousands upon thousands. The biggest that Veradis had ever seen, each one easily the size of his small finger. They marched in a wide column, as wide as a man lying with arms stretched overhead, a writhing, boiling black mass that issued from one side of the glade and disappeared into the forest on the other, in permanent, remorseless motion.
‘I have heard tales of such a thing, deep in the heart of ancient forests,’ he whispered to Nathair, ‘but never did I truly believe them.’ The Prince did not answer, just crouched to see the ants better, an intense, almost rapt expression on his face.
An isle of green grass separated the crowd from the column of ants, no one being overly keen to get too close. Veradis saw the boy that he had spoken to on the road standing nearby.
Knees and elbows began to dig into Veradis’ back as the crowd swelled. The thought of being pitched face first into the marching black carpet in front of him was not appealing, so he jostled back a pace.
Another ripple ran through the crowd as more joined the back, trying to squeeze their way through. The boy from earlier suddenly lurched forwards, knocked by bodies behind him, and his foot came down on the edge of the marching column. Instantly a black tide swarmed up his leg. The boy tried to jump back, but the press of bodies behind stopped him. He screamed and flailed at his leg. Blood was welling in rips that the insects had torn in his breeches, their mandibles tearing through cloth and flesh.
Veradis leaped past the Prince, who glanced at his friend briefly, his eyes drawn immediately back to the mass in front of him. Veradis swept the boy up into his arms, almost instantly feeling stinging pain as the ants surged onto him.
‘To me, pass the boy to me,’ a voice shouted, a young, red-haired man gesturing at him.
Veradis swiped at the boy’s leg, knocking scores of ants onto the ground, people suddenly pushing away from him. Now they’re moving. In the new space Veradis lifted the boy over his head and passed him to the red-haired warrior.
Further up the line a dog barked, a scraggly, wire-haired ratter. Even as Veradis looked, it was knocked sprawling into the ants. For a moment they just swirled around the dog, like a boulder in a river, but then the black tide swarmed up its legs, engulfing it. The whine turned to a frenzied howling as the dog stumbled to the ground, tried to rise, snapping, foam in its mouth turning pink. In a matter of seconds it quivered and then lay still.
Cursing, Veradis turned and stormed into the crowd, pushing his way through, glaring at people as they fell about him.
He found the red-haired warrior tending to the boy in an empty part of the glade and realized it was Kastell. He had sat with Romar, Isiltir’s King, at the feast. Methodically he was plucking insects from the boy, crushing them in his big hands. An older warrior, grey-haired, crouched beside him and tried to calm the boy, who was crying, chest heaving in great, racking sobs.
‘My thanks. There were not many back there inclined to help,’ Veradis said.
The warrior nodded.
‘I have seen you before,’ the grey-hair said. ‘You are the Prince’s man?’
‘Aye. Veradis.’ He extended his bloodied hand.
‘Maquin. And my friend here is Kastell. A strange sight, eh?’ he said, gesturing to the column of ants.
‘Aye. One I’ve never seen before.’
‘These are the times for strange sights, it would seem. Judging by today’s council,’ Kastell said.
Veradis smiled. ‘I saw you in the practice court yesterday. It would have gone the worse for you without that well-timed knee below the belt.’
‘I did not mean for that to happen,’ said the big youth, scowling.
‘It was well done, I would say,’ Veradis replied, and Maquin grunted an agreement. ‘Your opponent – he had it coming. He may not be so quick to laugh at you next time.’
‘Maybe. Maybe I have made things worse.’
‘How so?’
Kastell was silent.
‘His opponent was Jael, nephew of Romar, Isiltir’s King,’ Maquin said.
’Jael is my cousin,’ Kastell said. ‘His reputation in my homeland is not for forgiveness. I should not have struck him as I did. And especially not in front of such an audience.’
‘Long overdue, though,’ growled Maquin, and Veradis laughed.
‘You should stay out of things,’ Kastell said to Maquin with a scowl, ‘otherwise Jael will mark you as well.’
‘When you were six years old I carried you to Romar on my saddle. I have been your shieldman longer still. I think Jael already has me marked,’ Maquin said.
‘Aye, well, you should still be more careful. It is better not to catch Jael’s eye.’
‘Wise words from the man that kicked him in the knackers.’
Veradis laughed.
‘Don’t encourage him,’ Kastell said. ‘And just because you are a giantkiller now, it doesn’t make you invincible,’ he added to Maquin.
Veradis held his hands up. ‘I did not want to start a disagreement. Only to say that I thought you fought well.’
Kastell nodded and smiled.
‘And it seems there are some tales worth listening to here,’ Veradis added. ‘Giantkiller?’
‘It was a lucky throw,’ the old warrior said. ‘Kastell could see the colour of the eyes of the giant he killed.’
‘Oh-ho, two giantkillers. This must be a tale indeed.’
The boy on the ground whimpered.
‘Another time,’ said Maquin. ‘Find us at the feast tonight and we’ll share a jug. But now we’d better get this lad back to his kin.’
The two warriors carried the boy from the glade. Veradis studied his arms, grimacing at the mass of cuts and drying blood, then went to find Nathair.
The Prince was still at the front of the crowd, crouched in the grass, as engrossed in the macabre procession before him as when Veradis had left.
Suddenly the end of the marching column appeared, the insects receding from the far side of the glade as if a long rug were being rolled up.
Veradis watched silently as the crowd left the forest glade, until he and Nathair were the only two left.
The ants had flattened the ground they had marched over, leaving the impression of a wide, oft-walked path. All that remained of the dog was a mass of torn bloodied fur and bone.
‘They eat as they march,’ said Nathair, watching Veradis. ‘Amazing. Quite amazing. Did you see them, Veradis, the ants? How they overpowered something so many times their size and strength?’
‘I did,’ said Veradis, shivering at the memory.
‘We could learn from them,’ Nathair whispered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘When we go into battle we fight warrior against warrior, sometimes with shield-brother, but often without. Our wars are like a thousand duels on a battlefield, all happening at once.’
‘Aye. It is the way it has always been done.’
‘But what if we fought like the ants, Veradis, as one body, all aiding each other?’ He paused. ‘We would be unstoppable.’
Grease dripped down Veradis’ chin as he bit into a thick slice of meat. He was sitting at one of many long tables that had been set up in the practice court outside the keep. The night was warm, a half-moon and stars shining down from a cloudless sky. He had searched out Kastell and Maquin and shared a jar of wine with them. They had been good company, though King Romar had called them away early. Now his brother-in-arms Rauca was sitting next to him, trying to talk and gnaw on a rack of ribs at the same time. Veradis was not really listening. He was thinking about Nathair and events since the council had ended.
Rauca slapped Veradis on the shoulder and pointed to the open doorway of the keep. Prince Nathair was standing there, dressed in black with the eagle of Tenebral carved on a leather cuirass. He caught Veradis’ eye and beckoned to him.
‘Are you well?’ Veradis asked him.
‘Aye, my friend. My apologies for my mood earlier. I love my father, I just do not understand some of his decisions. I have thought
on what you said, though, and you are right. We must trust our king; but I will not sit idly by and watch while all he has worked for turns to ashes. I must work to further his cause, and indeed my own, for I will be king after him, will I not?’
‘Aye, Nathair. Of course.’
‘Then come, let us play the game that is before us,’ he said, flashing a smile.
Nathair led him into the courtyard, singling out kings and barons, methodically speaking with them all. Nathair was courteous and friendly to all, whether they had agreed to ally themselves to Aquilus or not, talking to them of their concerns with the alliance, and also about their own worries within their realms. Mandros of Carnutan was one of a few who refused to be charmed by Nathair, so the Prince instead turned to Mandros’ son, Gundul, a round-faced youth who laughed loudly at all of Nathair’s jokes. The Prince invited many out hunting with him the following day. Gundul agreed, as did a handful of others – including Jael, who had fought Kastell in the practice court.
He is made to be king, Veradis thought as he watched Nathair throughout the evening, charming, interested and knowledgeable in all subjects.
As the night grew late, and some were beginning to head to their beds, Nathair led Veradis towards a royal group gathered in the gardens that bordered the weapons court. Veradis recognized Brenin of Ardan, along with Rhin and Owain.
Brenin gripped Nathair’s arm, and Veradis noted his muscular build. Not a soft king, like so many of these others, he thought. He nodded a greeting to Tull, the King’s first sword.
The ageing warrior smiled at him. ‘How is your friend, Rauca?’ he leaned over and whispered.
‘He is well, although his knuckles are still bruised, no doubt.’
Tull laughed. ‘He fights well, but you don’t get to live as long as I have without learning to use this.’ He tapped a finger against his temple.
Veradis smiled, liking the old warrior.
‘This is Heb, my reluctant loremaster,’ King Brenin said, gesturing at the spidery old man behind him.
