by John Gwynne
Then Gar was there, riding his great piebald stallion towards them.
‘Is it true?’ Gar said when he reached them. Corban just pointed at the land behind him, at the dark tide of warriors swarming across the meadows.
Gar stared a while as Corban eyed the packs tied to Hammer’s side, the full water skins, a long object wrapped in leather strapped to the saddle. ‘Going somewhere?’ he asked.
‘I was,’ he said. ‘Not now, though. Come, let’s get you inside the fortress walls.’
With great difficulty, they hoisted Mordwyr into Gar’s saddle, and made much quicker time up the slope. Corban’s mam and Cywen met them in the courtyard, both dressed for a journey, he noted, in thick leathers and cloaks. Thannon stood beside them, scowling, his newly made war-hammer in his hands.
‘Shield is at the stables – I’ve tended him,’ Bethan said to Corban as she took Hammer’s reins, guiding her da into the fortress. The rest of them made their way up the stone stairs to stand on the battlements.
The village was overrun now, the land about the base of the hill teeming with marauders, the dark mass beginning to swarm up the slope towards the fortress. The last of the villagers were crossing the bridge, Torin with them, driving a wain piled high with sacks and barrels, Pendathran and his few score warriors riding behind. When they were all across the bridge the iron-bound doors of Stonegate slammed shut, bars ramming home. Everywhere was the shocked murmur of voices. King Brenin emerged into the courtyard, with Halion and a clutch of other warriors about him, Heb and Evnis trailing. Behind them came the Tenebral visitors.
Brenin conferred with Pendathran a few moments, then climbed the stairwell. He positioned himself on the walkway above Stonegate, staring down at the bridge that spanned the chasm between Dun Carreg and the mainland.
In time the host’s vanguard drew near, stopping two score paces before the bridge and spreading out in front of the fortress. Then Owain emerged from the mass of red-cloaked warriors.
‘Cousin,’ Owain called out, his voice ringing off the stone walls, his eyes scanning the battlements.
‘Aye,’ Brenin called back. ‘I am here.’
‘My son was more welcoming, when you visited my realm,’ Owain said, gesturing to the barred gates.
‘That is true,’ Brenin called, ‘but I was invited. You are not.’
Owain snorted. ‘Let us dispense with this. You are trapped, no means of escape. Give yourself up, along with your daughter and Pendathran. Then you will save much needless bloodshed.’
‘You are a fool, Owain. You are Rhin’s tool in this, nothing more – her puppet.’
‘Stop with your lies,’ Owain roared and thumped his saddle. ‘Marrock was seen, witnessed by many, leaving Uthan’s chambers. You ordered my son’s death. You killed him.’ His rage looked set to dominate him for a moment, before he mastered himself, and glared up at Brenin. ‘And in recompense I shall see you and your line wiped out.’
Brenin shook his head. ‘You are blind. But even so, what can you hope to achieve? Look at these walls. Your threats are empty. You can bang on my gates until Midwinter’s Day, and we shall hardly notice your presence.’
‘Maybe,’ Owain shouted up, ‘if you had food enough. I am in no hurry to be leaving. Let us see how much your people love you when they are starving, when they are dying about you. Consider my terms,’ he said. ‘I shall return at the same time on the morrow.’
He began to turn his horse, then paused. ‘Ah. I have something for you, to aid you in your deliberations.’ One of his men untied a small sack from his saddle, and emptied its contents.
A head rolled across the flagstones. The face was distorted by a rictus of pain or fear, but it was still recognizable to all close by.
Gethin, Lord of Badun.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CYWEN
Cywen muttered angrily to herself as she scraped Hammer’s hooves clean, running her knife deftly around the rim, clumps of hard-packed straw and earth coming loose. The stables were empty of people. Almost everyone was out on the walls, just watching Owain’s host, or training in the Rowan Field. That thought produced a fresh flow of expletives and she scraped more vigorously.
Two nights had passed since Owain had arrived, and Brenin had announced that anyone due to sit their Long Night before Midwinter’s Day could take their warrior trial early, to join the fight against Owain. That meant just about everyone that she knew, including Dath.
Dath, whom she had sparred with almost every day – and bested every day. And that lump, Farrell, who was as slow as an auroch.
She grimaced, imagining them all together, playing at being warriors, at being men. Ronan’s face came to mind, bright blood bubbling on his lips.
But it’s no game, she thought.
None of them understood. Except Ban. He had been there too, had seen Ronan, and had even fought. She felt a sudden rush of pride, of love for her brother, as she remembered watching him take his warrior trial. She remembered the shock she felt as she’d seen his sword trial, seen how he’d set at Halion, with a growing sense of witnessing something special filling her. And she hadn’t been the only one, going by the expressions of those about her.
The stable door opened and she blinked at the sudden burst of light flooding the darkness. And the figure silhouetted against the bright day was no less than Brenin. Evnis and his son were with him, along with Edana and Halion.
‘I am looking for Gar,’ Brenin said. ‘Is he here?’
‘No, my lord,’ Cywen said. ‘I thought he was out in the paddocks.’
‘No, he is not,’ Brenin said sharply.
‘Then I am sorry, I do not know where he is,’ Cywen said with a shrug. In truth Gar had been almost impossible to find for days, appearing only to issue a string of more commands, then disappearing again. He had been strange, ever since the day of Corban’s warrior trial, as had her mam, both of them insisting she dress for a journey but not telling her where or why. Of course, that had all changed with Owain’s siege, but still no explanation had been given, and Gar had become increasingly absent.
‘Is it something that I may help you with?’ Cywen asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Brenin said, preoccupied, clearly troubled to see Alona’s favourite mare nearby. ‘I need to know how many horses we have here – warrior mounts, not ponies.’
Cywen nodded. ‘No more than two hundred, lord. Maybe fewer. I do not know the exact number, but thereabouts. I can find out for sure . . .’
‘Only two hundred?’ Brenin said quietly. ‘That is not enough.’ He shook his head, ‘Yes, yes – find out.’
Only once since the siege had begun had there been any kind of prolonged battle. The day after Owain’s arrival an assault had been made on the gates, warriors hauling felled trees capped with iron up the hill, attempting to batter the gates down. But they had been too thick, and the defenders above had let loose a constant barrage of rocks upon those wielding the battering ram. Scores had been crushed to death before Owain called his men back, with little more than scratches on the gates of the fortress to show for their efforts.
Dun Carreg seemed impregnable, but nevertheless there was a mounting tension spreading amongst those within the walls. With Gethin dead, and his warriors no doubt scattered, all hope rested on Dalgar and his warband from Dun Maen to break the siege.
Others entered the stables to join the royal group. It was Nathair with his usual companions, the black-clothed Sumur with his long curved sword on his back, and the eagle-guard, Rauca.
Cywen sidled over to Edana, who smiled at her, though her face looked strained.
‘Got a new guard?’ Cywen whispered, nodding towards Halion.
‘Conall didn’t like the job,’ Edana said.
Cywen pulled a face. ‘Why the horse count?’
‘Father would have a force ready, for when Dalgar arrives. He will be outnumbered by Owain, and will need help.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘I have been looking for
you,’ Nathair said amiably, a broad smile on his face.
‘Have you?’ Brenin murmured, his attention elsewhere, still rubbing the mare’s muzzle.
‘Yes,’ Nathair said, the smile fading from his eyes. ‘For some time, now.’
Brenin looked at him finally. ‘Well, you appear to have found me. Forgive me if I have not been as available as you would have liked. These are unfortunate circumstances.’
Nathair made a dismissive gesture. ‘I am in no danger, I am sure. Owain is bound by the Old Lore, as are we all.’ The Old Lore was a set of customs that the Exiles had brought with them to the Banished Lands and included guest-rights: that a guest was safe at another’s hearth and was due the right of protection by the hold’s lord.
‘Indeed,’ said Brenin.
‘I hoped to speak with Owain, make him aware of my presence here, and perhaps reason with him over this useless war.’
‘Of course,’ Brenin said. ‘He returns to the walls each day. Speak with him then. Though I do not think you will change his mind.’
‘Yes. Thank you,’ Nathair said. ‘I regret this situation you find yourself in, but I cannot remain here indefinitely. I must return to my ship – soon.’
‘As you wish,’ Brenin shrugged. ‘I am sure that Owain would grant you safe passage. Is that what you wished to speak of with me?’
‘In part,’ Nathair said, ‘and of Meical. I have spoken with your councillors on the other matter, regarding the Benothi. They were most helpful.’ Nathair glanced at Evnis, who inclined his head.
‘But I am still most keen to discover why Meical came here, where he may have been going. Anything.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Brenin said. ‘Unfortunately, my time has been in much demand of late. I am sorry, but I have discovered nothing new. As I said before, I know not why Meical came here or where he went.’
Nathair frowned, not so easily put off.
‘There must be something . . .’ Nathair said. ‘He must have ridden here – an impressive stallion, a huge grey. Was he stabled here?’
He was, Cywen thought, remembering the horse clearly.
‘I don’t work in the stables,’ Brenin snapped.
Nathair frowned. ‘But there must be someone, a stable boy.’ He looked around, suddenly saw Cywen. ‘You there, do you remember the horse I speak of? A dapple grey?’
All eyes suddenly focused on her. ‘I . . . I remember him – the grey, I mean. He was beautiful.’
Nathair took a step towards her. ‘Did you stable the stallion? Or speak with Meical, its rider?’
‘No, I did not. That was Gar.’
‘Gar?’
‘The stablemaster.’
‘I must speak with him. Where is he?’
Cywen shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘I am sure he knows nothing,’ Brenin interrupted. ‘But I will see that he is questioned, inform you if there is any news of interest.’
Nathair turned back to Brenin. ‘I would rather speak to him myself, particularly as your time is so stretched.’
‘No,’ said Brenin.
Nathair stood silent a moment. His eyes narrowed. ‘I am accustomed to speaking to someone, if that is my inclination, my wish,’ he said coldly.
‘That may well be,’ Brenin said, ‘when you are in your own hall, your own kingdom. But I would remind you that you are a guest here, not king. And in my hall, my kingdom, I will do things as I please. And it does not please me to have others question my people. That is a task I reserve for myself, or those I deem appropriate.’
Sumur shifted, the barest movement of his feet, but suddenly there was a tension in his frame, the threat of violence in the air. ‘That is discourteous,’ he said softly in his guttural accent.
Nathair held a hand up to Sumur, as if to calm him. ‘I have travelled a thousand leagues for this information,’ he eventually said, something dangerous in his voice. ‘I will not be hindered in this.’
Brenin returned his gaze impassively.
‘Maybe you do not fully understand,’ Nathair said. ‘These are momentous times. Times of change. Times where choices must be made. A new order is coming. I shall remember those that help me, and those that hinder me, when my alliance is no longer in its infancy.’
‘Your alliance? I thought it was Aquilus that birthed it?’ Brenin said, raising an eyebrow. ‘You are of a different cast, I think, from your father. And, yes, I understand very well the times we live in. I was at your father’s council. I stood with him. Remember that.
‘Allow me to give you some advice, as you are yet new to your throne. In future, try and have more care in how you choose to speak to a king, especially when he is in his own hall.’
‘Mandros said something similar,’ Nathair murmured.
Brenin scowled at Nathair. ‘Mandros. Know this, Nathair: when my current troubles are resolved I will be calling for an inquiry into Mandros’ death. Kingslaying is not lightly done, and I am unhappy with all that I have heard.’ He at last left the stables, his party following. Evnis lingered a moment, a long glance passing between him and Nathair, then he too was gone.
Nathair turned back to Cywen. ‘Tell this Gar that I would speak with him,’ he said.
Cywen said nothing, and looked at her feet.
Suddenly horns sounded, an urgency in their tone. Nathair and his own companions left, the eagle-guard flashing a smile at Cywen as he went.
Crowds were making their way to Stonegate, where the horns were blowing loudest. Cywen darted ahead, ran up the stairwell and squeezed between warriors to peer over the battlements.
A warband was camped beyond the bridge, five or six hundred swords at least, which Owain deemed enough to contain any strike from within the fortress. The rest of the war-host was camped around the base of the hill, a black mass from this distance that spread throughout Havan and into the meadows round about.
In the distance, to the south, beyond Owain’s host, there was movement on the horizon, a dark smudge moving slowly closer.
Dalgar.
She felt the tension, the hope rippling through those on the wall. Then she remembered Edana’s words – Brenin wanted mounted warriors ready to give aid to Pendathran’s son. She turned and bolted back to the stables, to find Gar organizing the chaos there as countless warriors prepared for battle. Pendathran was shouting a continuous barrage of insults at anyone he considered not moving at their fastest.
She dived in and helped saddle horses, tighten girths, strap spears to harness and a host of other things, until suddenly riders were thundering away towards Stonegate, a cloud of dust rising from their passing.
She did not pause for breath, but made her way straight back to the walls, squeezing through the crush until she had a view of the land below again.
Dalgar’s warband was much closer now, close enough to make out tiny, individual riders, a wave of countless spear-points. Nevertheless, as they drew nearer Cywen was struck by how few they were compared to Owain’s host. The King of Narvon must have emptied his realm to field such a gathering. Dalgar had maybe a quarter of what was arrayed against him. There were thousands within the fortress, evening the numbers, but they had to get across the bridge, which was only wide enough for ten or twelve mounted warriors abreast. And then there was the problem of the horses. Most mounts had been put out to pasture around Havan, as there wasn’t enough room within Dun Carreg’s walls.
Below, Dalgar and his warriors were now charging Owain’s hastily drawn up lines. It was impossible to tell what was happening from such a distance, but Cywen could see the flanks of Owain’s massed warriors curling around the smaller warband, like a huge fist closing.
Corban joined her, staring anxiously down at the battle far below. ‘You’re not joining those in the courtyard, then?’ she said to Corban.
‘What? No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Only proven warriors, on Pendathran’s order.’
‘You are proven,’ she said defensively, but then felt relief overwhelm her an
noyance. She would not like to see Corban in that.
Pendathran’s voice sounded in the courtyard behind, shouting orders, and the gates creaked open, a flood of horsemen surging through them onto the bridge.
Owain’s warriors were ready for them, a thicket of spears awaiting the horsemen.
There was a great crash as the riders ploughed into this wall of spears, wood splintering, horses screaming, flesh tearing and bodies flung into the air. The end of the bridge became a seething mass of horseflesh, blood and iron.
More of Owain’s warriors were piling up behind the first rows of his spearmen. The bridge itself was crowded with Pendathran’s men, and a bottleneck of the dead and dying formed between the two camps where the bridge met the land.
Cywen saw Pendathran on his great warhorse, plunging and rearing in the mass, the battlechief striking about him with his longsword. He hacked spear shafts in two, severed heads from necks and chopped grasping hands from arms as they reached out to pull him down. Slowly but surely the enemy line gave before him. He ploughed on, becoming the tip of an arrow shape as Ardan’s warriors rallied behind him.
Then a spear sank into the chest of Pendathran’s mount, its scream rising momentarily above the din of battle. It crashed into the ranks about it, red-cloaked warriors surging forwards, and Pendathran disappeared beneath like a man drowning.
A great roar went up from the warriors of Ardan as they tried to hack their way to their battlechief, but all was chaos, the bridge a boiling mass of limbs and leather and iron and blood.
Then Corban pointed – Pendathran was there again, his huge bulk the centre of a maelstrom as he laid about him with his sword. He retreated and sank into the line of his own warriors, and for a while the two forces fought on, men dying on either side, but neither gaining any advantage. Eventually, slowly, step by step, the men of Ardan were pushed backwards across the bridge, back into the shadow of Stonegate. Warriors from above flung rocks and spears at the men of Narvon as they came within range. A gap formed between the two sides as Pendathran and his surviving warriors retreated, and then with a slam the gates closed again.
