by John Gwynne
An iron-shod boot crunched into the earth a handspan from his face and he scrambled up, seeing a warrior close by smashed to the ground by the giant who had almost trampled him. He swung his blade but he was off-balance and it glanced off the giant’s leather cuirass. In return the Hunen swung his axe, but Kastell managed to turn it with his shield, sliced at the giant’s exposed forearm but hit the iron-strengthened axe haft instead, the blow shivering up his arm. Kastell winced, and shrugged his shield off before the giant could pull him off his feet. He chopped two-handed with his sword at the giant’s arm.
The giant roared, stumbled backwards into the seething mass of battle and disappeared, blood fountaining from its wrist.
Kastell sucked in a few ragged breaths, looking about. The ground was littered with the dead, the battle still raging and the wyrm wreaking havoc further up the tunnel. Behind him Maquin was trading blows with a giant, getting steadily pushed back. Kastell wiped sweat from his eyes and charged silently, swinging his sword, and together they dispatched the threat.
They moved forwards, fighting their way along the tunnel, until the wyrm lay before them, its tail twitching as it died. Giants were still all about. Orgull was fighting as he always did, his feet set wide, trading blow for blow with an axe-wielding giant. He was one of the very few that could, his size and bull-like strength making him almost a giant’s equal. Vandil was virtually his opposite, the smaller, slighter man moving in a blur, his two swords in constant motion.
In the few moments that Kastell watched, the Gadrai’s leader ducked a hammer swing and spun inside the giant’s guard, his swords moving faster than Kastell could follow, then Vandil was spinning away. The giant looked confused, not yet realizing he was dead, as blood spread across his gut and groin.
Then Maquin took a blow to the side, and the old warrior grunted in pain. Before Kastell could check his friend, a Hunen with an axe was trying to take his head from his shoulders. The giant cracked the butt-end of its axe into his head. Kastell wobbled, staggered, his vision blurring – then something was between him and the Hunen and he heard the whistle of iron through air. The giant’s snarl twisted into fear as a red gash opened across his throat. Kastell saw Vandil leaping away from him, a flash of teeth in a grin, then his lord was gone.
He looked to Maquin, and saw the Hunen that he had been fighting was now dead at his feet. There was a bemused look on his friend’s face, his shield arm hanging limp at his side.
‘Vandil . . .?’ Kastell said, and Maquin nodded.
About them the battle seemed to lull, just for a few moments, and they leaned upon each other. Maquin’s face was white, a sheen of sweat over it.
‘Your arm? You are hurt,’ Kastell said.
Maquin grinned weakly. ‘Not dead yet,’ he muttered.
They were about to step back into the battle when something happened, further back in the tunnel, a ripple running through all that fought, man and giant alike.
Kastell looked back.
Shapes appeared in the torchlight, dark figures swirling towards him, wielding long, curved swords in two-handed grips.
The Jehar, Veradis had called them.
They were systematically cutting through the Hunen, the giants falling before them. Kastell saw Alcyon, the giant, Calidus as well, fighting with surprising ferocity.
In short moments they reached him, and moved on to where Romar and the remnants of his honour guard battled.
And then, suddenly, it was over, the last giant falling to a dozen slashing swords.
Corpses were everywhere, the tunnel’s floor hardly visible. It was difficult to count numbers, but Kastell figured no more than three score of the Gadrai still stood, if that. He shook his head – three hundred had come to Haldis. Romar was talking to Calidus, Alcyon beside them, the black-clad Jehar standing silently, utterly calm, as if they had not just fought a great battle. Kastell was discomfited to see women amongst their ranks. It jarred with all he had been taught, though if he was honest, the memory of how they scythed through the Hunen troubled him most. Women fighting more skilfully than him, than most here, was particularly disturbing.
Romar’s voice rose, the King of Isiltir pushing past Calidus to approach the wide doors. He shouted an order and a dozen of his guard stepped forward and shouldered the bar free.
‘You still live, then,’ a voice whispered in his ear. Jael swept past him, a handful of warriors from Mikil with him.
Romar and his guard were pushing the doors open. They banged into the tunnel walls with a dull boom, then Vandil was calling the Gadrai forward, who settled about Romar protectively.
Calidus lifted a hand and led the Jehar after them.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
EVNIS
Evnis looked about the feast-hall, taking stock. Things were coming to a head. Tonight. And his rage stopped him thinking straight. A clear mind was what he needed, but Gethin’s decapitated head refused to leave his thoughts. Owain would pay, not for killing his brother, but for robbing Evnis of his triumph, of Gethin witnessing his victory. Somehow it felt empty now, and that made him angry. He kept his rage within. Focus, or your head will be rolling, too.
His eyes fell on the boy with the wolven. Corban. Certainly there was something about the boy, arrogant as he was. He could not deny that it had been quite the duel, especially as he knew Helfach’s boy was no idiot with a sword. And Rafe had a couple of years on Corban. A smile twitched his lips as he watched the lad, sitting with Thannon and a few others, laughing at something. They would not be laughing soon.
Nathair had asked him to arrange a meeting with Corban, said he wanted to meet the boy that had tamed a wolven. Evnis had snorted at that. Tame it was not.
His gaze rested on Nathair, reclining in his chair, observing. From the very first, when Tenebral’s young King had approached him asking for information, he had known. Known that this man was special, had a role to play. And even if his own instincts had not served him so well, still he would have known. The voice had spoken, inside his head. It was not the first time he had heard it, guiding him over the years, but certainly it was the clearest. Serve him. Its command had been unmistakable.
He did not know how Rhin would feel, but she was not his master, whether she thought it or not. Asroth was.
So he had told Nathair about Meical seeing Brenin. That the two had definitely spoken privately, and at great length. Nathair had been grateful, and enraged. He did not shout, there was no outburst, but a coldness had possessed him then. This was not a man Evnis would cross lightly.
It is time, said the voice, a sibilant whisper in his head. He felt a stab of fear, knowing there was no returning from this next step. Do it, the voice snarled.
‘With me,’ he said, Conall and Glyn rising. He looked back once, from the doors. Brenin was still drinking, his head starting to loll. Good. He had been certain the valerian he’d arranged to be slipped into the King’s mead would slow him, but waiting to witness it had been tense. It was a shame Pendathran had not drunk of it as well. Can’t have everything.
He marched into the storm, heading for his hold. His last view of the feast-hall had been Vonn, glaring at him. He sighed. Parenting was difficult. They had argued about the fisher girl, Bethan, again. Vonn had told him that he loved the girl, wanted to be handbound to her. She was pretty enough, all right for Vonn to have some fun with, learn the ways of the world, but handbound? Vonn was destined for much better. Or better-born, at least. That had not gone down very well.
There would be time to smooth things over. After.
Soon they were back through the squall at the hold, Conall opening the door to his tower. He smiled humourlessly at the warrior. It had taken remarkably little to win Conall over. Pride was his weakness. Or one of them. Evnis had only to plant the seed, suggest that Halion was abandoning him for Brenin’s favour, then water it with the King’s very clear disrespect of Conall – a suggestion here, an observation there – and the beast had grown. When he had offered Con
all a place in his hold the warrior had been tempted, almost eager, and only a small draw on the earth power had been needed to fan Conall’s jealousy and paranoia.
Evnis headed straight for the basements. The tunnels had been boarded up for some time, after the encounter with the wyrm. But Evnis had known their value and had explored. That was how he had found the exit into the cave.
They waited by the tunnel entrance, and soon Evnis saw the flicker of a torch, and heard the whisper of feet. Many feet. His messenger appeared, sent out alone before sundown. He was not alone now.
A dark file of warriors slipped past him, filling the basement. Forty, fifty, more – all wrapped in black, curved swords jutting over their shoulders. One of them stood before him, waiting.
See it through, he told himself. He stood and walked to the staircase. ‘To Stonegate,’ he said.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
CYWEN
Cywen leaned against the wall and looked out into the darkness that surrounded the fortress. Rain lashed her, winds swirling and pulling. She didn’t care; at least it meant she was alone, away from others that didn’t understand.
She was standing on the battlements above Stonegate, the night hiding the warband below from view. In the courtyard warriors were huddled about a guttering fire, four score men or so trying to keep the chill at bay. Others, little more than shadows, stood by the gates.
Cywen sighed, a deep, mournful thing, and wiped moisture from her face.
‘Chin firm, lass, it could be worse,’ a voice said behind her. She started at a warrior standing close by, stepping out of the shadows.
It was Marrock. ‘Least you’re not still in the Darkwood,’ he continued. ‘And you’re on the right side of this wall.’ He looked out into the darkness.
She knew the truth of his words but could find nothing to say in response that didn’t sound petulant, so she just nodded and turned away. He looked at her a moment, then walked on.
Absently she stroked the cold handle of a throwing knife, one of seven, strapped in a line along her belt. She was never without them now, not after realizing their worth in the Darkwood. Camlin, the woodsman, had returned one of them to her, saying it had ended up in his shield somehow.
Every day since her return she had practised with them, imagining Morcant was her target. Unlike Corban, or Brenin, she had no outlet for her vengeance, was not permitted to fight. It was unjust, and made her feel so useless, with a battle-host camped in Havan.
She glared over the walls, into the darkness and was about to turn away when she saw something. A movement, right on the very edge of her vision, where the darkness became complete. Leaning over the wall, she stared, strained, wiping rain from her eyes. Was that the drum of feet?
Then there were voices behind her, in the courtyard. She turned and glimpsed Marrock further along the wall, now looking in the same direction as she was.
A handful of warriors had strode into the courtyard and marched towards the fire, calling a loud greeting to warriors gathered there. She saw Evnis at their head, behind him a clutch of warriors from his hold, as well as Conall, Halion’s brother. That one walked with a swagger, all confidence.
Maybe he felt her eyes on him, for he looked up at the walls, almost straight at her. He did not smile this time, though, as he was wont to do. She never made more of that than it was, having seen him behave the same with most women in the fortress, and no doubt all of Ardan beyond. This time he just stared at her, eyes narrowing, and began to walk up towards her.
Then Cywen spotted men, issuing from the street behind Evnis, spreading silently around the edges of the courtyard, clinging to the shadows beyond the firelight’s reach.
Cywen opened her mouth to shout a warning, and heard Marrock’s voice call out. Men about the fire looked to Marrock, then to the shadows, becoming aware of the creeping warriors.
Suddenly Evnis had a knife in his hand, and was shockingly plunging it into the chest of the nearest man. Then the shadows burst into life, warriors charging forwards with sharp iron in their hands.
All became chaos.
Many were cut down in that first rush, not even having time to draw their swords. Those that did manage to pull blades free of scabbards didn’t do much better, the dark warriors carving through them with frightening ease. In moments almost two score men were dead about the fire as the warriors before the gate milled in shock, unsure whether to rush to their comrades’ aid or stay and guard the gate.
Someone thought to sound a warning but the storm snatched the sound away as soon as it was made. It couldn’t have carried much further than the courtyard. Men of Ardan stumbled from buildings around the open space, clutching swords and spears. Many of these fell quickly as they were still unprepared, thinking Owain had sent a sortie against the gates, but soon the courtyard was a seething hive of battle.
Marrock had gathered a handful of men about him from the wall, and was leading them down a stairwell, to aid those guarding the gate. The gate-guards were fighting with the desperation of the cornered, but the greater skill of the black-clad warriors was telling. If help did not come soon, the gates would be lost.
Cywen remembered her knives, and hurled one at the warriors attacking the gate-guards. A man fell backwards with her blade in his chest. She aimed another into the massed enemy and another fell. The next blade was for one of those blocking Marrock’s way down the stairwell and the next saw another enemy on the stairwell collapsing. Then she snatched another blade from her belt and was cursing under her breath, scanning the crowd for a clear target.
She became aware of noise behind her and turned, to witness the beginning of the end.
Men were streaming across the bridge, weapons in hand, hundreds of them, and behind them more than she could count, their lines fading into the sheeting rain. Owain’s host had somehow crept up to the fortress in the darkness, and waited for this moment.
She screamed, but no one paid any heed, either not hearing or too busy fighting for their lives. None except Marrock, who was being forced step by step back up the stairwell by a dozen black-clad warriors.
With horror Cywen realized the gate was lost. Even as she looked, the enemy were shouldering the great iron-bound bar from its seating. She sent a knife into them, but it didn’t stop the bar from tumbling to the ground and the gates swinging open with a crash.
All in the courtyard seemed to pause for an eye-blink, staring at the gaping gateway. Then, with a huge roar, Owain’s warriors poured through the open arch.
‘Get to Brenin, along the wall – he must know,’ Marrock shouted to her. Cywen stared, numbed by the shock of what she was seeing. Then Marrock was looking past her, shouting a warning.
She recognized Conall striding towards her, sword in hand, his face dark with menace.
Without thinking she hurled her knife at him. But he flicked his wrist, his sword sending the iron blade spinning away into the night. Cywen tripped as she tried to run.
‘Get back, lass, out of my way,’ she heard someone yell behind her, Marrock, trying to get at Conall.
She took a step but suddenly she did not want to get away, let others fight in her stead, again. She sprang at Conall, trying to avoid his sword hand. He was so surprised that his infamous speed failed him, just for a moment, and then she was inside his guard, kicking, punching, scratching, biting. Conall stumbled backwards, and tried to grab her, but she ducked and rammed her head into his belly. He w hoofed, but one hand managed to grab her hair, hold her close. Instead of pulling away she pushed, with all of her strength and weight. Conall was already off-balance, so he staggered backwards, a heel slipping out over the wall’s edge. He teetered there a moment, still gripping a handful of Cywen’s hair, flailed an arm, then fell, dragging Cywen with him.
Together they hurtled towards the stone courtyard, towards a sea of warriors locked in combat. Cywen heard Marrock shout her name, somewhere behind and above, then, suddenly, all was darkness and she knew no more.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
CAMLIN
Camlin gulped a last mouthful of mead from his cup, and shook his head when Tarben offered him more.
The feast-hall was quieter now, many having left for their own hearths and beds. There were still more than a few score, though, Camlin noted as he glanced around the room – mostly warriors, others in small clumps dotted elsewhere. The flames from the firepit were slowly sinking, sending flickering ripples of light and shade around the room. Camlin thought he could just make out that healer’s crow, who led them out of the Darkwood, gripping a beam in the far corner. He could almost feel its strange beady eyes staring at him.
He glanced at Brina, sitting hunched in conversation with old Heb. As much as she scolded the loremaster at every opportunity, he could see there was an ease in their relationship. Torin and many from the village were also still here. And further away, in a dark corner, laughing, were Corban and his friends. They had been quick to support him, those two, when Corban had been threatened. Something about that scene had touched him. Friends that would guard your back in a fight were rare.
Something still lingered in the air after that Court of Swords, a tension, an excitement. There was certainly something about that Corban.
He chuckled to himself, looking at his own companions. He had gone from prisoner to warrior, most of those sitting with him now having served time as his guard. And even Marrock was one – he’d just left the hall to stand his watch on the wall – a good man, a good friend, a bitter enemy. Friend. He was still amazed by the turn his life had taken. Much as he preferred wood and sky to stone walls, he was glad he was here. It felt good, as if he were doing something right, instead of just what was right for him. Even though a good end to this siege was beginning to look more and more unlikely, he didn’t care.
