by John Gwynne
‘Not safe . . .’ she managed to splutter. ‘Protection – I have managed well enough for a score of years, and without any of your newfound concern.’ She spat the word as if it were poison. ‘It is bad enough having to put up with idiots with sharp sticks lurking on my doorstep day and night: why would I choose to live in a fortress full of idiots?’ She smiled humourlessly. ‘Do you miss my company?’
‘Company? Stone the crows, woman, time in your presence ages me,’ said the loremaster, standing to pace around the room. Craf squawked above their heads. Heb glanced up, the scruffy-looking crow watching them from a beam, his beady black eyes shining.
‘You are as stubborn and stiff-necked as ever,’ muttered Heb. ‘Age is supposed to mellow a person.’
‘Hah, as it has you?’
Heb held a hand up, took a breath. ‘Would you not consider it? I would sleep better knowing you were within the walls of the fortress.’
‘Dun Carreg is no place for me. I like trees and grass, not rock and stone.’
‘Think on what I have said, Brina. There is wisdom in it, you know that.’
‘Pfah. Wisdom. What would you know of that?’ the healer muttered.
‘I give up.’ Heb raised his hands and strode towards the door. ‘Be careful how much time you spend with this woman,’ he exclaimed to Corban, ‘she can be bad for a man’s health.’
The door closed with a bang, leaving Corban and Brina staring at each other.
‘Bad man,’ muttered Craf.
Corban looked away, flinching from the healer’s glare. Vonn lay on his cot in the next room. He was pale faced, eyes sunken, but the fever had left him.
‘What would you have me do?’ Corban asked.
‘I have little need for you today, no herbs need collecting. There is always sweeping, though. Yes. Where does all the dust come from.’
Corban fetched the broom.
‘And don’t let your hound eat my crow,’ said Brina, eyeing Buddai suspiciously as he sat staring up at Craf, a line of drool hanging from the fold of one of his jowls.
He’d choke, thought Corban, but managed to stop himself from speaking the thought out loud. He pointed and Buddai curled up near the front door, Storm worrying at one of his floppy ears.
Vonn was propped up with pillows, watching Corban as he began sweeping in his room.
‘You’re missing some,’ Vonn said, pointing into a corner. Corban ignored him.
‘Boy, boy, I am talking to you.’
Corban looked over at him.
‘That’s better. Now, just there, under the table – you haven’t swept there.’
Corban grunted, swept where Vonn was pointing. He deeply begrudged doing Vonn’s bidding, but Brina had asked him to sweep, and he knew without doubt that, no matter where she was in the cottage, she would be listening.
Just then Storm walked into the room, tiring of Buddai. She saw the stiff rushes of the broom sweeping back and forth and leaped on them. Corban laughed as the broom handle was wrenched from his fingers.
‘You,’ said Vonn.
‘What?’ said Corban, turning. Vonn had pushed himself into a sitting position, blond hair dark with sweat, strands clinging to his face.
‘It was you, in the Baglun?’ Vonn stared from Corban to the wolven-cub.
‘Aye. What of it?’ said Corban.
‘You dare set foot here, and bring that with you?’ Vonn pointed an accusing finger at Storm.
‘Aye, I do.’
‘You have much to answer for. Were I not confined to this bed I would teach you a lesson myself. Right now.’
‘I have done nothing wrong,’ said Corban.
‘Nothing wrong? Other than protect the animal that caused the deaths of brave men, caused my own wounding, maybe. I think you have done much wrong. And when I am healed, I will come find you to seek a reckoning.’
‘I have done nothing wrong,’ Corban repeated, feeling anger and fear struggling within. It was well known that Vonn was skilled with a blade.
‘My father thinks differently,’ said Vonn.
‘Aye, and the Queen thinks differently to him,’ Corban retorted.
The two of them were silent for long moments. ‘Sweep your own room,’ Corban muttered, then stalked out, Storm following.
He began sweeping elsewhere, so violently that the dust rose in a cloud about him, but he did not notice. Brina sat in a chair, poring over a leather-bound book. She also kept an eye on Corban amidst the cloud that surrounded him, but she said nothing.
Soon after, the sound of shouting came through the open windows. Corban ran to the door, Brina just behind him.
The warrior posted to guard Vonn was on the far side of the alder glade. Corban could just see him holding his spear in the air and whooping loudly. In the distance was the sound of horses’ hooves, lots of them.
The warrior stood there a moment longer, silent now, then turned and made his way back towards them.
‘What goes on?’ said Corban.
The warrior looked at him but said nothing.
‘Well?’ snapped Brina. ‘Are you deaf? The boy asked you a question.’
‘It was the search party, returning to the fortress,’ the warrior said, still ignoring Corban, looking at Brina. ‘Marrock rode with them.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
VERADIS
Veradis took a deep breath, savouring the smell and taste of brine in the air, even though it whipped into him, stinging his face and bringing tears to his eyes.
He walked the deck of the ship easily, unconsciously allowing for the shift and roll beneath his feet. Others were not faring so well.
Bos clung to the side of the ship, bent double, spittle flying in a stream from his mouth. Other men in similar poses were dotted around the ship’s edge. Veradis smiled. He had grown up on the bay, so the deck of a ship was more than familiar to him, but many of the warriors in Nathair’s warband had come from further inland. For many this was the first time they had seen the ocean, let alone journeyed on it.
He looked grim. This would be an opportune time for the Vin Thalun, whose ships they travelled in, to turn on them. No, he thought, Nathair is right. If they wanted him dead they could have done the deed many times over.
He reached the prow of the ship, the sun rising on the horizon before him, turning the sea to shimmering gold.
Half a ten-night they had been at sea. Earlier, the coastline of Pelset had been visible, the most easterly of the Vin Thalun’s three islands. Now they were well into the great expanse of the Tethys Sea, nothing between them and Tarbesh but water.
He glanced over his shoulder, spying the other ships in their fleet as black dots in the glare of the sun. Eight hundred of Nathair’s warriors were on those ships, only five or six score left at Jerolin to gather in and train any new recruits while they were away. He smiled at the memory of King Aquilus and Peritus, standing amazed as they had watched the warband train.
It had been something to see.
A third of the warband, some three hundred or so men standing shoulder to shoulder, the line three score long, five men deep. The other two-thirds of the warband, ordered to mass and attack as was common in the Banished Lands, an unorganized swarm. They had charged the still line of warriors, screaming war cries, wooden swords and spears raised. When only twenty or thirty paces had separated the two groups, the line of warriors had raised great round shields, forming a wall of oak and iron.
The charging warriors smashed into it. The wall had trembled, bent at the edges like a newly strung bow, but held firm. After long moments of battering ineffectually against the shields, battle-cries turning to grunts as men strained and pushed, a single blast of a horn went up from behind the shield wall, and, as one, they took a step forwards. Then another. Men began to fall before the wall of shields, unable to move back or manoeuvre in the tight press.
‘How do they wield a blade in that crush?’ Aquilus had asked.
Veradis and Nathair, along with Aquilus, Fi
dele and Peritus, had viewed the mock battle in the glade from a small muddy knoll recently stripped of trees. Veradis remembered Nathair’s smile.
‘The attacking warriors cannot, Father,’ Nathair had said. ‘The wall of shields forces them too close. They cannot separate into hundreds of individual duels, as has been the way, and so their swords and spears are too long. The shield warriors, though, have been equipped with these.’ He drew a short sword from his belt, sheathed where he usually carried a knife. Nathair had commissioned a team of smiths to make the weapons in secret, and wooden counterparts had been fashioned for the warband to train with. ‘These are more suited to this combat. See how they are thrust between the shields. They do not need room to swing a blade, only stab what is in front of them.’
Aquilus glanced at Peritus, who watched the battle in silence. He nodded, once.
‘Your men are at risk of being flanked,’ the battlechief had said, pointing to the glade.
‘Aye, but watch.’
The shield wall had curved at the flanks as the attacking warriors sought to overwhelm or surround them. A horn blew again, two short successive blasts this time, and warriors from the centre of the back row moved quickly to strengthen the flanks. At the same time riders had filled the glade, two groups of horsemen appearing from the trees, each a score or so strong. They flew at the warriors who were trying to breach the shield wall’s flanks, turning at the last instant to rake the massed warriors with spears and long swords.
The outcome was clear enough.
‘It works well in partnership with mounted warriors,’ Veradis said.
‘I have seen enough,’ said Aquilus.
Nathair raised a hand in the air. The horn sounded again, and instantly the mock conflict had stopped, the men in the shield wall helping fallen comrades regain their feet.
‘Well, Father. Do you not judge us ready?’
Aquilus had sucked in a deep breath. Veradis could still remember the smell of the glade, the air damp with morning dew, the smell of rotting leaves, rich forest loam, sweat, horses, all mingling.
‘It is impressive, Nathair. What say you, Peritus?’
‘As you say, my King. You use the terrain well, Nathair,’ the battlechief had said, ‘but here it is in the favour of your wall of shields; that would not always be so – woodland battle, a more open space, where the attackers are not so hemmed in, high ground.’ He had shrugged. ‘I am uncomfortable with some of the things I see here. These men are warriors, yet they are being herded as cattle. And your weapons: I would prefer to fight warrior to warrior, know that my skill with a blade had kept me alive.’
‘A craftsman brings the right tools to complete the task,’ Nathair said. ‘And if the right tool does not exist, then he would make it. This is no different. The task is to win, to defeat Asroth’s Black Sun, is it not, Father?’
‘Aye, that is so,’ Aquilus had agreed, frowning.
‘Defeat in the coming war cannot happen. We must do all that is within our power to ensure victory,’ continued Nathair.
Peritus had been silent awhile. ‘There is truth in what you say. And your methods are effective – of that there is no doubt. How would your wall of shields fare against a charge of horse, do you think?’
‘Just as well. A horse will not charge a wall of stone or timber, or a forest where there is no gap between the trees. This is no different.’ Nathair had smiled.
‘You say that, but you do not know,’ the battlechief said. ‘It looks impressive, but your warband is made up of untried warriors, most of them not long past their Long Night. How many veterans of campaigns are in your ranks? None. In times of danger, panic, experience holds a line better than youthful passion.’ Peritus had looked at Aquilus and shrugged, ignoring Nathair’s gaze.
There had been a long silence before Aquilus gave judgement.
‘You shall go to Tarbesh,’ the King had said. ‘We shall begin organizing it today, for I would have you back with me by Midwinter’s Day.’
‘Aye, Father. My thanks,’ Nathair had said, his joy spilling onto his face.
The Queen had lingered as Aquilus and Peritus had ridden from the glade.
‘You are growing into a rare man,’ she said to Nathair. He had just smiled at her. ‘Remember your father’s words. Follow his will, and all will go well for you; for us.’
‘What do you mean, Mother?’ Nathair had asked.
She stepped forward, cupping his cheek in her hand.
‘I think you know, my son. Remember, you are all I have. I would not see you fall from your father’s grace. You have a sharp mind, a strategic mind, but you must curb your enthusiasm. You have new ideas, that is clear.’ She had gestured to the warband. ‘Some can help the cause now. Some, maybe, must wait for another day. Others should be laid aside, perhaps permanently.’
‘Such as?’
‘Your association with the Vin Thalun.’
‘Mother, I am a child no longer,’ Nathair had said, rolling his eyes.
‘No, but a son should obey his father, no matter his age, a subject should obey his king.’ She had looked at him sternly, then turned to leave. ‘Look after my son,’ she said to Veradis.
Only a few nights passed, and then they had left Jerolin. Nathair rode at the head of eight hundred men with Veradis beside him. Rauca was just behind, holding a banner displaying the eagle of Tenebral.
They had followed the river Aphros for a ten-night, and Veradis remembered the tension building in him as the first trees of the Sarva came into view, the knowledge that he would face his father soon a growing pressure within. But then Nathair had changed course, travelling south towards the coast.
The Vin Thalun were waiting, Lykos standing on a beach of shingle, alongside Calidus and his looming guardian, Alcyon. A fleet of ships was anchored at their backs.
‘Your father will not be pleased,’ Veradis had said to Nathair. ‘Nor your mother.’
Nathair had grinned. ‘What they know not will wound them little,’ he had said. ‘Besides, Father wants me back for Midwinter’s Day. By travelling this way I will ensure that.’
‘And what of flapping tongues? We have close to a thousand men here.’
‘This will be a test of their loyalty,’ Nathair said sternly. ‘This is my warband, they are my men, not my father’s. I shall make this clear to them.’
Veradis had shrugged, relieved at not having to see his own father, and in half a day all of the warband, horses and supply wains as well, had been loaded onto the Vin Thalun’s ships.
The sound of footsteps brought Veradis back to the present. He turned his head and saw Nathair approaching.
‘A good thing we are not fighting a campaign at sea,’ the Prince said, gesturing at the sick warriors scattered around the ship’s edge, vomiting.
‘Aye,’ grunted Veradis, part of him still concerned about that possibility.
‘We will save at least a whole moon of hard riding, travelling like this, and the same if we return this way. No more than five nights, and we should be on solid ground again.’
‘Are you so keen to face the giants of Tarbesh?’ said Veradis.
‘Indeed.’ Nathair waved his hand, bit into a plum, dark juice dripping to the deck. ‘They will fall before us. The Banished Lands have not seen our like before, Veradis. Destiny calls us; we will not fail. This will be a fair trial for us.’ He gave a ferocious grin. ‘My father was right: we need combat to sharpen us. He is wise, in some things.’
But not all, Veradis thought, finishing Nathair’s unsaid sentiment.
‘This fixation he has about the Vin Thalun; he will come to see it is unjustified. I will change his mind. He is a man of reason – and we must think of the future, not the past, is that not so?’ Nathair bit the last flesh from his plum and cast the stone into the sea.
‘Aye.’
‘Just look about us. They are a great asset, these Vin Thalun. Not only has this saved time on our journey, but also now we will arrive in Tarbesh rested, no
t weary from a hard road. And there are so many more possibilities, so much more potential – the speed with which we can move warriors, the element of surprise attacks. So much more.’
Rested? Maybe not all of us, thought Veradis, glancing at a warrior vomiting bile over the ship’s rail. Still, overall he could not fault Nathair’s logic.
‘And there is more to their worth,’ Nathair continued, talking more quietly now. ‘I set Lykos a task, asked him to gather information for me.’
‘About what?’
‘You remember the book Meical read from, at my father’s council.’
‘Of course. Many things were spoken of.’
‘Yes. I have talked of some of it with Lykos and Calidus. They are helping me to understand it.’
Veradis frowned, not sure he liked the sound of that. ‘What of your father and Meical? Why not ask them?’
‘I have tried. Meical will say nothing to me, and Father only says soon . . . But soon will be too late. So I must take help where I can find it. Lykos has built up quite a network of – what shall we call them . . .’
‘Spies?’ Veradis offered.
‘Informers. And Calidus seems to know much about everything. Do you recall white-walled Telassar that Meical’s book spoke of, and the shadow warriors?’
‘Aye. It all sounded like riddles, to me.’
‘And to me. But Lykos has told me of Telassar. It is a fabled city, hidden by a glamour, home to warriors fiercely devoted to Elyon: shadow warriors, the Jehar, they call themselves. They know of the coming God-War, have spent their lives preparing for it, preparing for the Bright Star.’ Nathair looked around him, lowering his voice. ‘I am the Bright Star, Elyon’s chosen, so they will fight for me.’
Veradis nodded. ‘That would all make sense,’ he said, ‘except for one thing. Where are they? Fabled cities are often just that – fabled. And if they are hidden by a glamour, how will you find them?’
‘Yes, good questions. As to where this fortress is, Lykos has heard word it is in Tarbesh.’
‘Ah.’
‘Exactly. So the time we are saving on our journey can be put to good use. I will find this Telassar, and talk to these shadow warriors.’
