by John Gwynne
‘Yes, my King,’ Peritus said, his face now a blank, his thoughts hidden.
‘Good,’ Nathair said, smiling suddenly. ‘You will see, Peritus – the shield wall will help us win our war against Asroth and his Black Sun.’
‘Aye, my lord. How, exactly, do you mean to execute this plan?’
‘Veradis shall choose a few score men that were with him in Carnutan, those he deems capable of leading as well as teaching. They will be sent to my barons and will train their warbands. They shall be the foundations of a new breed of warrior, forging warbands the like of which has never been seen in the Banished Lands before. We are mustering for war.’
Veradis felt his blood stirring at Nathair’s words. He could almost see the warriors locking shields, thousands instead of hundreds.
‘When?’ he said.
‘Immediately. Give some thought to the men you would choose. As soon as that is done they will leave.’
Veradis nodded thoughtfully. ‘If your warband is being split to train new men, how will we be able to aid Braster and Romar, or Brenin?’
‘You see to the heart of it, my friend. The answer is we must wait a while, until these new warbands are ready.’
Veradis frowned. ‘How long?’
‘Two moons, at the earliest. Maybe longer.’
‘But summer will be past by then, and with a long journey, we would be arriving at winter’s beginning.’
‘Possibly. If that is the case, then we may have to wait for next spring.’ Nathair shrugged. ‘There is much else to do, Veradis. Do not fret: I will not have you sitting idle in these cold walls. But if the training goes well you may yet see more battle before the year is out.’
Veradis looked doubtful. ‘Helveth we can reach, but Ardan – that is a long way.’
‘Aye, it is,’ Nathair said. ‘By foot.’ He looked to Lykos, who was lounging in his chair, long legs stretched out.
‘I could get a warband to Ardan easy enough,’ the corsair said. ‘Though the further north we sail the more treacherous the waters become. Earlier would be better. Hunter’s Moon would be the latest it could be left.’
Nathair nodded.
‘You have been of great service to me thus far, Lykos.’
The Vin Thalun dipped his head.
‘You and your fleet are central to my plans. Already the speed you have gifted me has proved vital.’
‘We can do more than ferry your warriors. We would gladly fight for you, shed our blood for you. We believe in your cause, believe in you.’
Peritus looked at the Vin Thalun, his eyes creasing.
‘I know. And you will have many opportunities to do just that, my friend.’ Nathair looked intently at them all. ‘The Vin Thalun are welcome here, are a valuable ally. We should do what we can to help them, for helping them helps me, us, our cause.’ He stood straight again, focusing on Lykos. ‘How many men can you transport?’
‘Now? Some three thousands, no more.’
‘We will build you ships. Tenebral has vast forests, and I will need to move more than three thousand at a time ere this war is finished. Bring your shipbuilders here, to oversee the work. Together we shall build a fleet.’
‘It shall be done,’ Lykos said, the iron rings in his hair clinking gently as he nodded.
Nathair paced to the window, staring out over the lake and plain.
‘My father expected many to join his alliance, once Midwinter’s Day had passed. That has not happened. Carnutan is in hand now, of course, after the recent events. Gundul I can count on.’
Whilst he benefits from you, thought Veradis.
‘But from the rest – silence. I have sent out riders. I would know where the realms of the Banished Lands stand. If they will not stand with me, then I must consider them against me.’
‘Perhaps Aquilus’ death has troubled them,’ said Peritus.
Nathair frowned. ‘Why should that change anything? My father may be dead, but the alliance should stand – the sun darkened on Midwinter’s Day, did it not?’
‘Aye, my King,’ muttered Peritus.
Nathair looked frustrated. ‘But you are most likely right. The kings of these lands are contrary. Even Romar, who pledged his aid at the council, is sounding hesitant. I have received a parchment from him, asking for a detailed explanation of the events around my father’s death. He even expressed, what was it . . .?’ He rummaged on the table they were seated around, pulling out a rolled parchment. ‘Ah, yes. He expressed his disappointment, regarding Mandros’ death before a trial.’ Nathair screwed the parchment up, threw it on the floor and returned to the window. ‘We shall do what we can, prepare for war. Then we shall do what we must.’
A silence settled upon the room, growing until it seemed Nathair had forgotten they were there. Peritus shifted in his chair, a leg scraping. Nathair blinked, movement beyond the window catching his gaze.
‘A rider has just passed through our gates. One of the messengers I have been speaking of, I think. Peritus. Go, see what news he brings.’
Peritus rose and left without a word.
Nathair returned to the table.
‘My friends,’ he said, ‘you four shall be my inner circle, those that I trust without question. Others will be useful.’ He glanced at the door where Peritus had just departed, ‘But none do I trust as I trust you.’ He bowed his head, and looked troubled. ‘Elyon speaks to me. I dream, almost every night now. I must find the cauldron. I have been told it is vital to our cause – a weapon. Can you help me?’
‘In any way I can, my lord,’ Lykos said. ‘You have only to ask and I will attempt it.’
Nathair nodded. ‘I know, I know. There is much I must accomplish. I feel the burden of it keenly.’
‘I can be of some help regarding the cauldron you speak of. I have information,’ said Calidus.
Veradis looked at the old counsellor. It was still hard to believe this man was one of the Ben-Elim, the sons of the mighty, angelic warriors of Elyon. He understood why Calidus maintained the secrecy of his identity, but he longed for the day when the ancient warrior would reveal himself. And he had wings . . .
Nathair brightened and sat straighter in his chair. ‘Tell me.’
‘I have gathered some knowledge of this cauldron. Many, many generations ago, before the Scourging, a star fell from the sky. The giant clans were different, then, less warlike. They forged things from this stone. You may have heard tales of the seven Treasures.’
‘Aye, of course,’ said Nathair, and Veradis nodded agreement.
‘Well, it would seem there is some truth in those tales, is there not, Alcyon?’
‘Aye,’ said the giant. ‘Before the clans came to be, there was but one clan. My ancient kin lived in the north-east, beyond Forn Forest. Seven Treasures are remembered amongst the loremasters, which were said to be forged from the starstone during that time: spear, axe, knife, torc, cup, necklace, cauldron . . .’
Veradis twisted in his chair, staring at Alcyon.
‘Where? Where is it?’ Nathair hissed.
‘The Treasures were scattered,’ Alcyon said, shrugging his huge shoulders. ‘When the Sundering happened, when the one clan became many, there was a great exodus from the north. The Treasures were taken; wars were fought over them. Most were lost, or the knowledge of them was lost. So the tales say, at least.’
‘I have received word that the cauldron is in Murias, a fortress of the Benothi giant clan,’ Calidus said. ‘I believe it is reliable.’
‘Murias,’ muttered Nathair. ‘ That is a long, long way to march a warband, even to sail one. We need clear passage through the realms between here and there.’ He looked at a scroll on the table, held open with weights at each end, traced a line with his finger: ‘Helveth, Carnutan, Isiltir, Ardan, Narvon, Cambren – all lie between here and Murias.’
‘Carnutan, as you say, is dealt with,’ Veradis said. ‘And most of the others are those that have been promised aid. Surely we can use that.’
‘
Yes. Very good, Veradis. We will help these realms, do what we must to ensure our voice is heard by those in power.’ Nathair frowned. ‘I do not like relying on others’ goodwill, though. As I said to my father, these alliances are fragile. An empire would be more practical, would it not?’
‘Your will be done,’ Lykos and Calidus said together, just above a whisper.
‘Why not declare yourself now?’ Veradis asked. He had heard Nathair mention empire before, but always felt uneasy, somehow. Now, though, after the campaign against Mandros, seeing the way the kings of the Banished Lands schemed, it was beginning to make more sense in his mind. ‘Strike your banners, and see who stands with you.’
Nathair grinned. ‘I thought you were the cautious one.’
Veradis snorted. ‘Was.’
‘Not yet,’ Calidus said. ‘Declaring your true identity will bring your enemies down upon you, I suspect, and travelling halfway across the Banished Lands, through countless other realms, will be like a lodestone to them. It is too dangerous. Best to wait, find this cauldron, this weapon, and return it to Tenebral. Then declare yourself.’
Nathair leaned back in his chair, tapping fingers on its arm. ‘Good. I shall do as you advise. The way forward is becoming clearer to me. Two other things are in my mind.’ He held one finger up. ‘The Jehar swordsmasters, the ones that left Telassar so many years ago. Where are they?’ He looked at Calidus.
‘I do not know,’ Calidus said, bowing his head. ‘My sources, thus far, have found no word of them.’
‘It is a matter of great importance to me, Calidus. I must know where they went, and why.’
‘Aye. I will not fail you.’
‘I know that, my friend.’ He patted Calidus’ shoulder. ‘And the second matter.’ Nathair held up another finger. ‘Meical: my father’s counsellor. He fled when my father died. I want him found.’
‘Ah, now there I have some news,’ Calidus said, grinning.
‘Really?’ Nathair raised an eyebrow.
‘Only today, I have received information. Reliable information. Meical has been seen at Dun Carreg. In Ardan.’
‘Dun Carreg. That is King Brenin’s stronghold, is it not?’
‘Aye.’
‘Hmm,’ Nathair muttered. ‘That is very interesting. And it is a good deal closer to Murias than we are here.’
‘What are you thinking, Nathair?’ Veradis asked.
‘Perhaps I should lead those that I send to aid Brenin, find out why my father’s counsellor felt the need to visit him. And also to position myself within striking distance of Murias, with a warband about me.’
Suddenly the sound of horns blaring drifted through the unshuttered window. Nathair moved quickly to it, Veradis and the others following.
In the distance, on the edges of the plain, a dark shadow was growing, a cloud of dust above it, moving slowly closer. The faint rumble of hooves drifted up to them.
‘What?’ said Veradis.
‘Come, to the walls,’ said Nathair.
Soon they were climbing the battlement stairwell by the fortress’ great gates. Veradis vaulted the steps, two at a time, breathing heavily by the time he reached the top. Warriors were gathered there, watching grimly to see who approached.
The host on the plain was closer now, not far beyond the lake village. The top of the stockaded wall of the settlement was now thick with people.
Sunlight glinted off spear-tips borne by the oncoming riders. A dust cloud hovered above them and the drumming of hooves rumbled thunderously. There were too many to count, but the host was at least a thousand strong. Veradis stared, straining his eyes, but could see no banner or markings that declared their identity.
Suddenly, as the host began to climb the gentle slope to the fortress, Veradis recognized them.
The Jehar had come.
‘Veradis, Alcyon, with me,’ Nathair commanded as he headed for the courtyard.
Nathair ordered the gates be opened and strode through with Veradis one side of him, Alcyon the other.
One man rode at the head of the Jehar, black hair tied back just as Veradis had seen him before. But this time he was dressed for war, in a black leather cuirass over a long coat of dark iron mail.
Sumur, Lord of the Jehar.
Veradis scanned the ranks behind him, saw both men and women amongst the host, all with their long, curved swords slung across their backs. Something struck him as different.
They have no shields, he suddenly realized.
Sumur raised a hand, reined in his mount, and the host behind him drew to a gradual halt, and silence descended.
Somewhere above a hawk screeched.
Gracefully Sumur slid from his saddle and stepped forward as the entire host dismounted.
‘Nathair of Tenebral,’ Sumur said as he approached, stopping a few paces before the King. ‘I have come as I said I would, bringing the power of the Jehar with me.’ He looked up at the battlements of Jerolin, packed tight with warriors, then back to Nathair.
In a loud voice he called out, ‘Nathair, we pledge ourselves to you, the Seren Disglair. We, the Jehar, shall be your avenging hand.’
He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. With a great cry the entire host behind him did the same.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CORBAN
The Year 1141 of the Age of Exiles, Reaper’s Moon
Corban ducked under the paddock rail and took a deep breath. The air was fresh, sharp, a chill to it that set his skin tingling, even though the sky above was blue and the sun bright. Summer was slipping away, autumn creeping in.
‘Come on, Ban,’ called Cywen.
She was standing in the meadow near the lone oak, Gar beside her. The stablemaster was holding the reins of his great piebald, Hammer, who had an extra saddle strapped to his flank. Shield was galloping around the meadow, turf spraying, showing off to his sire.
‘Are you ready, lad?’ Gar asked him.
‘Aye.’
‘Good.’ Corban then unstrapped the spare saddle from Hammer and called his colt over, gently putting the saddle on Shield’s back, then quickly hooking the bridle over his ears.
Shield stood calmly through the process, Corban having accustomed him to bearing the saddle. Today would be different, though. Today Corban would ride him.
‘Up you get, then, Ban,’ Gar said, tightening the girth.
Slowly he swung his leg over Shield’s back, eased himself upright and took the reins from Cywen. He clicked his tongue.
‘Walk on,’ Gar said, pulling firmly at Shield’s bridle. The colt resisted a moment, took a stiff step forwards, then another and another, until he was walking comfortably again.
After a while Corban got lost in the rhythm of it, the rise and fall, the constant movement of muscles beneath him. They were walking parallel to the giantsway now, a thin plume of smoke marking Brina’s cottage.
Beside him Gar made a clicking sound and sped into a limping jog, moving Shield into a trot. ‘You ready?’ he asked Corban, glancing at him.
‘Aye.’
Gar let go his grip of Shield, and Shield sped Corban away. Haltingly at first, but then with increasing confidence as they circled the paddock, to return to Gar.
‘Do you hear that?’ Gar said, his head cocked to one side.
‘What . . .?’ Then Corban did hear it: a distant rumbling. They both stared down the giantsway.
Slowly riders came into view, a wide column filling the road. Two men rode at the column’s head, both large and broad, black haired and bearded.
One was Pendathran, his sword arm strapped in a bloodstained sling.
It was the warband returned from the Darkwood.
The man riding next to Ardan’s battlechief was strikingly similar, but with no grey flecking his black beard – Dalgar, Pendathran’s son. They both looked over as they drew near, Pendathran nodding sternly to Gar.
In the column that followed, single warriors led groups of riderless horses. Many riderless horses. Corban sa
w Halion and raised his hand to his swordsmaster. Halion smiled back, though he looked weary, pale, a raw scar on his cheek.
In silence they watched the rest of the warband pass by, heading for the winding road that led back to Dun Carreg.
The sun was dipping into the west, shadows lengthening in Dun Carreg, as Corban stepped out of his da’s forge and headed for the stables. Storm fell into step behind him.
He was itching to hear news of Pendathran’s warband, but little had been clear when he’d returned home yestereve, other than that far fewer warriors had returned than had ridden out. Making things worse, his da had kept him busy in the forge all day, much to his annoyance.
Cywen will know something, he thought. Working in the stables, she hears all of the news first.
He stretched, muscles aching after his day with hammer and anvil. A sharp sea breeze cut through the lingering heat of the forge, and he was tugging his cloak tighter before the stables came into view.
Cywen was hovering by a water barrel, huddled in close conversation with Edana and Ronan.
Perfect, Corban thought. Having a spy in the keep is most useful.
‘Oh, hello, Ban,’ his sister said. He nodded to her and smiled at Edana and Ronan. The young warrior looked gaunt, black shadows under his eyes.
‘Edana and Ronan were telling me about the Darkwood,’ Cywen said quietly, looking over her shoulder for Gar. The stablemaster would not be impressed if he saw her standing around. ‘Many died.’
‘I saw the empty saddles. What happened?’
‘We were outmanoeuvred,’ Ronan said, his face bleak. ‘For many nights we beat a path through that forest, our party split into three forces. It was a simple plan – we were all to push to the centre of the Darkwood, meet in the middle and catch Braith between us.’
He paused, reliving bad memories. ‘Somehow Braith managed to swing around our flank. It would have been much worse if not for Marrock and Halion. They caught wind of it somehow, gave us a chance to pull shields and draw blades before the arrows started flying. Many died. More would have – we were pinned down – but that madman . . .’ He snorted, shaking his head. ‘That madman Conall ran at them. He jumped off his horse, lifted his shield and just ran, blind as my boots at a wall of trees and brigands, all trying to fill him full of arrows.’ He laughed. ‘That was all we needed. Pendathran went behind him, then Dalgar; it was like a dam breaking. Those brigands are courageous enough behind trees with a bow in their hands, but they were not so brave when it came to iron against iron.’
