by John Gwynne
Kastell looked away.
Another rider detached itself from the hunting party and headed towards Kastell and Maquin.
It was Veradis. He smiled as he approached them, slid from his horse, letting it graze freely on the meadow grass.
‘Making ready to leave?’
‘Aye.’
‘You’re back earlier than I thought,’ said Kastell. ‘Didn’t think Jael would return here until all of the work was done.’
‘Does he not like hard work?’ said Veradis.
‘Careful,’ muttered Maquin, glancing around, ‘remember where we are.’ They were hidden from view behind a half-collapsed tent, but the sound of others labouring nearby was still clear.
‘Well, Nathair has put in a good morning’s work, I think. Caught a deer and charmed the sons of some kings a little more.’
‘Work? What do you mean?’ asked Maquin.
‘Nathair works hard for this realm. He is championing his father’s cause – Tenebral’s cause. I know he is right, but I find it wearisome. Politicking is not my favourite pastime.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t mind the hunting so much, though.’
‘Politicking?’ Maquin said.
‘Nathair is trying to win more support for his father. You were there,’ he said to Kastell, ‘you’ve told Maquin about the council?’
‘Of course,’ Kastell grunted. His shieldman had been sceptical when he had told him of King Aquilus and Counsellor Meical’s claims. He was sceptical. The gods Asroth and Elyon, the Kadoshim and Ben-Elim brotherhood, suns and stars. It was a lot to ask any man to believe. Still, Kastell had felt strange, almost excited, as that ancient book was being read. And those things it spoke of – the stones weeping, the white wyrms. They had happened.
‘It is quite a claim,’ said Maquin thoughtfully. ‘Asroth’s God-War against Elyon, here, amongst us. Do you believe it to be true?’
Veradis flushed at the neck. ‘My King tells me it is so. There is no more.’
Maquin held up a hand. ‘I mean no insult to you or your King. There is no disloyalty in having an opinion of your own.’
Veradis grunted, his shoulders easing slightly. ‘Aquilus is a good king,’ he said slowly. ‘He is wise, has ruled Tenebral well for more years than I have drawn breath. I have not been close to him for long, but my father, who is critical of most that walk this earth, has only ever praised Aquilus. And if that is not enough there is Nathair. He I do know well, and trust with my life. He believes these things are happening, so I have no doubt that they are.’
‘Good enough,’ said Maquin. ‘Dark times ahead indeed, then. Let us hope that Prince Nathair’s efforts bear fruit.’
‘Aye,’ said Veradis, relaxing. ‘Talking of Nathair, I told him I would not be long. I just wanted to see you both before you left, to wish you safe journey.’
Kastell gripped Veradis’ wrist. ‘If this alliance works the way you tell it, maybe we’ll ride together one day.’
‘That would be good,’ said Veradis. ‘Until then, watch out for that cousin of yours. And you stay out of trouble, grey-hair.’ He grinned.
‘Look to your own hide, pup. I’ve had some practice at caring for mine.’
Kastell watched as Veradis walked away. So many years without a friend, and now I’m making them in all kinds of places. He shrugged and set back to the packing.
‘Here he is, lads,’ a voice said behind him. Before he could turn, he was grabbed by the shoulder and spun around. A fist sank into his gut and he doubled over.
‘Stay out of this, old ma— oof,’ he heard through ringing ears. Maquin stood over another man, fists bunched. Others were rushing around the side of the tent, closing quickly, all faces he knew, faces from Jael’s hold. Some fell upon Maquin, two running past the grizzled warrior to throw themselves at Kastell. He ducked a blow, sidestepped, managed to connect his own fist with a jaw and send the man on the end of it crashing to the ground. Doing quite well, considering, he thought, then he was grabbed from behind, someone pinning his arms.
‘Jael sends his greetings,’ a voice whispered in his ear and someone began raining solid blows into him. His vision blurred and stars burst in his head, then he heard shouting, then that unmistakable sound of a sword hissing from its scabbard. Suddenly he was falling, the arms that had gripped him gone. He crunched jarringly to his knees, toppled slowly to the side.
More shouting and his eyes fluttered open. Booted feet were everywhere, other figures lying near him, one of them rising slowly – Maquin, he realized, blinking to clear his vision. Holding onto a tent pole, he pulled himself up, looking around.
Two men lay unmoving on the floor, two more stood together, facing Maquin, fists raised. One stood alone, a sword-tip at his throat.
Veradis was holding the sword.
Kastell staggered over to Maquin’s side. Other men ran around the tent now, more of King Romar’s warriors. They snarled as they saw their friends, some drawing weapons.
‘Halt,’ cried a loud voice. Romar himself cleared the part-collapsed tent, Jael at his heels. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he bellowed. An awkward silence fell. Romar repeated his question, this time aimed only at Veradis.
‘Best ask your own,’ the warrior of Tenebral replied calmly, keeping his eyes on the man at the end of his sword-point. ‘For myself, I was returning to the fortress when I saw these men set upon those two,’ he gestured towards Kastell and Maquin. ‘I do not know your customs in Isiltir, but here in Tenebral five against two is considered cowardly.’
King Romar looked from Veradis to his warriors to Kastell and Maquin, both with bloodied faces, and then finally to Jael.
‘You can sheathe your weapon,’ he said to Veradis, who took a step back, and smoothly slid his sword into its scabbard.
‘My thanks,’ mumbled Maquin through swollen lips.
‘And mine also,’ said Romar. ‘Come, share a drink with me before we leave.’ Veradis looked back at the fortress, then nodded.
‘I will deal with you later,’ Romar said to his warriors as he turned and walked away, Veradis following him. ‘Jael, Kastell, with me,’ he barked over his shoulder.
Silently the three men followed Romar’s broad back until they were standing in a row inside a tent. The King of Isiltir filled four cups from a skin and handed them out. Kastell winced as the sour liquid stung his cut lip, but he gulped it down nevertheless. Fighting was thirsty work.
‘Again, my thanks,’ said Romar, tipping his head to Veradis.
‘I am glad to have been of some help. Sometimes disagreements can flare into something worse.’
‘Not all would have done as you did. Aquilus is fortunate to have men like you around him. A wise king surrounds himself with men of quality, such as yourself.’
Veradis bowed his head, looking uncomfortable.
‘But what does that say about me, I wonder? Those I have close to me seem more inclined to fight each other than our true enemies.’ He scowled at Jael and Kastell. ‘And what have you to say?’ he directed at Kastell, who shuffled his feet, looking at the rim of his empty cup.
‘Just a disagreement. Nothing more,’ he mumbled.
‘Do not lie to me, boy. You are not very good at it.’ He looked back to Jael.
‘Do you think me a fool? Do you think I know nothing of this, this bairn’s grudge you have fostered against your cousin?’
‘You take his side?’ Jael blurted incredulously.
‘It is not about sides,’ roared Romar, hurling his cup at the ground. ‘I saw, Jael. I saw what you did to Kastell, in the practice court.’ He drained his cup and poured another. ‘I was ashamed. This. Ends. Now,’ he growled.
‘But . . .’ said Jael.
‘NOW!’ bellowed Romar. ‘You will both be lords soon. If I were to die it would probably be one of you two that would rule Isiltir until my son Hael comes of age. You will be leaders of men. You do not lead by shaming others.’
‘But he shamed me. If you were there you must have seen what he
did.’
‘Aye, I did. There was wrong on both sides, but more with you, Jael.’ He began pacing around the empty tent. ‘I say again: this ends today. Right now. You are kin, bound by blood. This only brings shame on you both, on me, on our family.’
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
‘Now, start behaving like kin, and men.’
Another long silence.
‘Yes, Uncle. You are right. We should put this childishness behind us,’ Jael said. He held out his hand to Kastell, who hesitantly took it.
Romar smiled. ‘That’s better, lads. Well done.’
Romar slapped them both on the back. ‘That is good. I have high hopes for the both of you. New times are ahead for us all, what with this alliance and . . .’ he trailed off. ‘Anyway, the two of you figure highly in my plans for the future of Mikil, and of Isiltir. Now, let us get this campsite cleared and begin the journey home.’
‘Yes, Uncle,’ said Jael. Kastell grunted, and they both left the tent.
‘This is far from over,’ hissed Jael as he walked away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CORBAN
Corban slipped into the kitchen, face flushed and sweaty from his morning’s training with Gar. His mam was standing by the oven, pulling out a tray of oatcakes. He ran a hand through his damp hair, chewing on his bottom lip.
‘Can I speak to you, Mam?’
Gwenith placed the oatcakes on the table, brushed her hands down her woollen dress, and sat. ‘Of course.’
He sat opposite her, absently digging at a piece of wood in the table with his thumbnail.
‘Has this anything to do with the bruises on your da’s face?’ Gwenith asked. ‘And the rumours I’m hearing – that he had a talk with Helfach?’
‘I’m sorry, Mam,’ he said slowly. ‘I lied to you.’
She said nothing and he looked up at her now, his dark eyes meeting her gaze. ‘About my face. I didn’t fall on the rocks. I was fighting.’
‘Who with?’
‘Rafe.’
‘Ah. I see.’ Gwenith nodded to herself. ‘Go on.’
And so Corban told her his tale, including Rafe’s dare and his penance of afternoon chores with Brina. When he was done they sat in silence awhile.
‘There is something else,’ he said. ‘In the mornings, when I go out early. I have been training. Training with Gar. He told me to tell no one, but I wanted to tell you. I don’t want to lie to you any more.’
‘Does Gar know that you have told me?’
‘Yes, Mam. I spoke to him about it this morning.’
She looked at Corban, large brown eyes filling, and held out her arms. ‘Come here, son.’
He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled his head into her shoulder.
‘You are a good boy,’ she murmured, stroking his dark hair, ‘better than you know.’ A tear spilled out and rolled down her cheek.
‘Why did you laugh?’ Corban grunted as he rested a moment, hanging from a beam in the stables. ‘In Evnis’ courtyard. About the “power of words”.’
‘I believe Thannon intended a different outcome for his lesson. Your da would not be my first choice for a task requiring diplomacy. You see, Corban, the power of emotions . . .’ Gar shrugged. ‘I have not seen the man that could best your da in a fistfight. But anger ruled him for a while back there. And he has made an enemy now. For life.’
‘So?’ said Corban. ‘What does that matter?’ He dropped from the beam and rolled his shoulders.
‘Maybe nothing. Maybe something. Thannon will need to watch his back from now on, that’s all.’
Corban grunted, not liking that thought, particularly as he had been the cause of the conflict.
‘Well, Helfach has stayed out of Da’s way since. And I haven’t seen Rafe at all.’
‘Aye. Helfach is a proud man, a beating like that will not sit well with him. As for Rafe, I have heard that he is not able to leave his bed at the moment.’
Corban looked at the floor.
‘Queen Alona should declare the next hunt soon. It will be interesting whose hound she chooses to lead it.’
‘A hunt? It’s my nameday soon. If the hunt is after then I will be able to go.’
‘Aye, lad. True enough. And you know what else your nameday means?’
‘Yes. The Rowan Field,’ said Corban reverently.
The fourteenth nameday was the traditional day for boys to begin their warrior training. All began their training long before they reached fourteen, whether on their own with a stick and a defenceless tree, or with their da. Corban had spent many hours whacking the trees in his mam’s rose garden, and Thannon had done his best to teach Corban some combat basics, though the blacksmith was somewhat lacking in technique, having little need. The Rowan Field, a great empty space at the northern tip of the fortress, was where it happened. It held an almost holy aura to all the boys in Dun Carreg. When he came of age, on his sixteenth nameday, he would attempt the warrior trial with sword, spear and horse. If he passed he would ride out to sit the Long Night, standing guard throughout the dark of night over those who had protected him. Then he would be a man.
‘They will not teach you bladework as I do,’ Gar said. ‘They do things differently, where I was trained.’
‘Helveth, you mean?’
Gar gave a curt nod.
‘For one thing, you will be shown more with a shield. When I learned my weapons a warrior would grip a sword two-handed and attack rather than hold a shield and defend – we were taught the best defence is to attack.’
‘Which is better?’
‘You will make up your own mind. It will do you no harm to learn both ways. I will continue to show you my way until you ask me to stop, or I have shown you all I have to teach.’
‘That won’t be any time soon,’ said Corban.
Gar grunted. ‘You will be teamed to a warrior in the Rowan Field, one that will begin your training. Usually Tull takes those on their first day, finds out what they can do, then he passes them on to whoever is free. But Tull is not here. Tarben would be best out of those still at the fortress – if you can learn to block his moaning from your ears.’
Corban smiled.
‘If that does not happen, try for one of the newcomers, Halion or Conall. I have watched them in the Rowan Field. Both know how to hold a blade, though for you Halion would be better. The older one.’
‘Why him?’
‘He is a thinker. He will teach you to use this.’ The stablemaster prodded Corban’s temple none too gently.
Days settled into a routine for Corban, the spring sun growing in its strength and lengthening the days, summer’s heat building early. He trained with Gar most mornings, and even though his body complained, he always came away with a sense of satisfaction. He was starting to feel a little stronger in his exercises and a little less clumsy in his sword dance.
The rest of his days were filled with hot sessions in the forge, hours in the paddocks with Cywen and Gar, building a bond with his colt, and regular afternoons in and around Brina’s cottage.
Gar had told him not to attend his usual pre-dawn training at the stables. It is a special occasion, he had said. So Corban had risen at sunrise and broken his fast with his family, although he hadn’t had much of an appetite. His thoughts kept drifting to the Rowan Field. He had looked forward to this day for so long, longed for it; but now that it was here, he’d rather wait a little longer. This business with Rafe had tainted it. He felt a pressure building behind his eyes and in his chest as his time to walk into the Field rapidly approached. Until finally Thannon ushered Corban out of the cottage door.
They walked in silence, his da leading Corban past the feast-hall, the keep, the well passage, past stone buildings busy with people, then past stone buildings empty and dark.
He heard the clack-clack of wooden swords striking each other before he turned a corner and saw the Rowan Field opening up before him. Green grass flashed bright in the sunlight at the end o
f a long path, rowan trees edging both sides of it, their branches crisscrossing overhead to form an arched tunnel. He stopped.
So here he was, staring at the entrance to the most esteemed warrior training ground in all of Ardan, a place of mythologized grandeur that had a special place in the hearts of every boy in the realm.
Thannon rested a large hand on Corban’s shoulder.
‘Here you are, son.’
Corban nodded silently, took a deep breath and walked into the shade of the trees.
A huge field unrolled before him, ending in the high stone walls that ringed the outskirts of the fortress. The sound of the sea and the calling of gulls underlay everything else – the noise of men sparring, practice sword beating against practice sword, or shield, or leather, or flesh. Corban felt the thud of hooves through the ground, saw at the far edges of the field warriors riding at each other, or running beside cantering horses. Closer stood rows of thick tree trunks, driven into the ground. Men were lined before them, some drawing bowstrings, some casting spears at the wooden targets. Closer still, men sparred in pairs, some with shields strapped to their arms, others with wooden swords held in two-handed grips, the grass worn and patchy. Around them were small clusters of men watching the contests.
As Corban gazed around the field a warrior approached them. He was tall and gangly, long brown hair tied back from his face.
‘Name’s Tarben,’ he said as he drew nearer, nodding to the blacksmith. ‘This your first time in the Field?’ he directed at Corban.
‘Yes.’
‘This is my son,’ Thannon said.
‘Normally Tull runs things round here, so it would be him that would welcome you to the Field, but as he’s away, playing at Elyon knows what, it’s fallen to me to be the overseer of the Field.’ Then the gangly warrior drew himself up straighter and spoke in a loud, clear voice. On the edge of his vision Corban saw heads turn amongst those watching the sparring, looking over.
‘Welcome, Corban ben Thannon, to the Rowan Field of Dun Carreg. May you learn the ways of a warrior while you are here, and may truth and courage guide your hand.’ He grabbed Corban’s arm in the warrior’s grip.
