by John Gwynne
He heard something from beyond the treeline, the creak of wood.
What was that?
‘Get off, bad man,’ the crow squawked at him.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CAMLIN
‘Quick!’ Meg hissed beside Camlin. ‘He’s going to kill Craf!’
I know him. Rafe. He was with Braith, in the marshes, and Vonn knew him, too. Talked me into letting him live.
Even as Camlin released his arrow he saw Rafe jerk in shock as Craf pecked furiously at his hand, then Camlin’s arrow was slamming into his shoulder. Craf was thrown free in a burst of feathers, he swooped in at Rafe’s face, talons raking, before he winged higher into the air, squawking insults as he went.
There were guardsmen around Rafe, and before Camlin could move the alarm was sounded.
So much for surprise, Camlin thought as he pulled an arrow from the turf in front of him and loosely nocked it.
‘Now, Meg,’ he snapped, and light flared as she sparked her torch soaked in pitch.
He lit his arrow, drew and released, the hiss of flame an incandescent arc through the darkness. He’d aimed for Rafe, but somehow he twisted away, at the same time gripping the arrow in his shoulder and ripping it free.
Did he see my second arrow coming for him? No, can’t have.
The flaming arrow thudded into a pole, caught in the tent fabric, and fire crackled into hungry life. All along the treeline arrows flashed from the shadows, screams rang out from the giantsway, and to Camlin’s satisfaction the sound of grain sacks igniting. Within heartbeats a handful of wains were roaring infernos.
‘Another,’ Meg said, jabbing him in the ribs.
He ignited another arrow, aimed, saw figures emerging from the main tent – giants, and then behind them, Rhin.
Well, if I could put an arrow through that old bitch’s heart I’d make Edana’s day.
He sighted and released, his arrow flying true, and he knew before it hit that it was heading straight at Rhin’s chest, but just as it struck there was a flash of iron and his arrow was spinning away. In its place Rafe stood there, sword in hand, glaring straight at him.
Did he just cut my arrow out of the air? Camlin felt some anger at that, and a small jolt of fear. He’d seen that kind of thing done, but not in a night fight, chaos and flames and death all about. His pack of raiders – archers every one of them – were raining fiery hell down upon the extended camp on the giantsway. Camlin nocked and drew, not bothering to ignite this one, but Rhin was already moving as he loosed, his arrow punching into the meat of a giant’s arm instead.
Better ’n nothing.
There was the sound of dirt and gravel sliding, and he saw Rafe charging at him, two huge hounds with slavering jaws either side, giants and warriors in black and gold behind him.
‘Time to go,’ Meg said and dashed into the darkness.
‘You’re not wrong, lassie, but I think I’ll stay for one more,’ he muttered, drew his bow, sighted and released; a warrior in black and gold stumbled and crashed down the embankment. He didn’t get back up.
‘Now it’s time to go,’ Camlin said, snatched a handful of arrows, turned and sprinted into the undergrowth.
The plan had been to destroy as much of the baggage train as possible as well as killing as many men in black and gold as they could. Many of the wains were burning so as far as Camlin was concerned the job was done. He knew his crew could look after themselves, all twenty of them were woodsmen.
There was crashing and snarling behind him, closer than he’d hoped.
He sped through the dark woodland, heard the odd crackle of forest litter ahead of him as he caught up with Meg. They were following fox and hare trails that he’d found days earlier, walking them day and night to settle them into their heads. He’d been planning this ambush for a while now, and, truth be told, he’d hoped to do more damage, hadn’t expected to be running quite so soon.
It’s Rafe’s fault. He must have seen the fire as I lit my arrows to know where to run. That and his hounds. He swore under his breath. I’m going to wring Vonn’s neck for making me let that bastard go.
He ran on, heard the faint sound of the river ahead of him, knew that once he reached it he could shake off the hounds and he’d be safe.
Nearly there.
Horn blasts rang out behind him, distant, haunting.
Rhin’s warband. A recall to those chasing through the woods? He hoped so.
He burst into an open glade that ran alongside the river, saw Meg standing on a fallen tree, beckoning to him. He skidded to a halt and sucked in a deep breath, muscles bunched to leap. Moonlight bathed the glade and river in pale light, glistened like scattered silver dust on the river-foam.
Then something slammed into his back and he was spinning and rolling, his bow and arrows cast into the air, grass, moss, forest litter in his face. He came to a halt spluttering, searching for his weapon, saw a hound rolling a dozen paces away, scrabbling to get its feet under it.
He saw his bow, arrows scattered about it. He lunged, grabbed wood, rolled and drew as he heard the thud of the hound’s paws, turned to see it leap.
Others were bursting into the glade as he loosed: Rafe, another hound, a giant. His arrow punched into the leaping hound’s chest. It yelped, crashing to the floor, floppy-limbed. Then Rafe was screaming, charging at him with bloody murder scrawled across his face.
Camlin struggled to his feet, drew his sword, and turned swinging at Rafe, the lad swaying and ducking impossibly fast. Camlin flailed his bow at him and lucky timing knocked Rafe off balance, sending him sprawling face-first.
Camlin glanced frantically about the glade. Meg was gone, nowhere to be seen. Rafe was on the ground, dazed. A giant, weapons in her hands, strode towards him, and another hound was sniffing and whining at the one he’d put an arrow into.
A giant, a hound and Rafe, who’s become someone to worry about. Not the kind of odds I like in a fight! He had his sword in one hand, his bow in another, though no arrows. They lay spread around the glade.
He heard the whistle of air, threw himself to the ground as one of the giant’s knives slashed where his head had been. He came out of his roll with his sword connecting with the giant’s boot, with a crack that he hoped was bone breaking.
Something hit him in the head and he was spinning, the ground rushing up to thud into his face.
No time for lying around, he told himself as he saw the giantess hobbling after him.
He went to heft his sword, then realized it was no longer in his hand.
Damn it!
Then the giant had caught up with him and put her good foot on his chest, sending air rushing from his lungs.
‘Stay still, you little ferret,’ the giant growled, raising one of her blades over him.
There was a crunch and she staggered back a step, blood leaking down her forehead.
What?
Meg was back on her log, throwing stones at the giant. Another one smacked into the giant’s face, sending her crashing to one knee, swaying, bellowing in pain.
‘Come on,’ Meg yelled at Camlin.
Good advice.
Camlin clambered to his feet, head spinning, staggering across the glade, then a dark figure grabbed him, slamming him into a tree: Rafe.
With no weapons Camlin fought dirty: a knee to the groin, headbutting Rafe in the nose but still the boy didn’t let him go, his hands fastening around Camlin’s throat and squeezing with more strength in them than Camlin would have expected.
‘You. Killed. My. Hound,’ Rafe grunted as he squeezed, Camlin flailing, gouging his thumb into the boy’s arrow wound, grabbing fingers, trying to prise them loose, break them, but nothing seemed to affect Rafe.
How is he doing this? He’s . . . not . . . right.
Camlin’s vision started to blur and then there was a squawking and flapping of wings, talons and beak slashing at Rafe’s face, clawing at his eyes. Abruptly the grip around Camlin’s throat was gone and he was slidi
ng down the tree, coughing and spluttering. Rafe staggered away, clutching his hands to his face.
Craf, I could kiss you.
Camlin pushed himself up, away from the tree, and staggered to the glade’s edge. The giant saw him and stumbled after, one arm reaching out and grabbing his jerkin.
I’m getting away from this, not even a giant’s going to stop me.
Camlin hurled himself towards the glade’s edge, the unsteady giant was dragged off balance and together they crashed into the dead tree, careened over it and fell, spinning head over heels into the river.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
VERADIS
Veradis walked along the line of his men, straightening a shield here, testing a grip there, pushing to ensure that the warrior was balanced, feet set right, shoulder into his shield. They stood before him, a hundred and forty men, twenty men wide, seven rows deep, shields raised, interlocked.
Better. This is better. The shields were solid, overlapped correctly, the flanks protected, and the manoeuvre had been carried out in a matter of seconds. Moving in formation was getting better, or at least the wall was not falling apart once the men began to march. And the best part of all was that they now believed. Before the battle against Gundul’s warband those under Veradis’ authority had been unsure of the shield wall’s capabilities, and worse, considered it unworthy of a warrior.
Staying alive while your enemy dies is a great convincer.
They had seen first-hand the value and power of the shield wall, seen Gundul’s ranks throw themselves against it and die.
But they are not my Draig’s Teeth. Veterans of scores of battles, drilled in marching, rotating, protecting flank and rear, the array of horn blasts that I’d developed to maintain communication on the battlefield. How can these men take them on?
Looking at them ranged in front of him, the answer was obvious.
If they do, they’ll die.
If he were honest with himself, the thought of lining up on a battlefield against the Draig’s Teeth made him feel sick to his stomach. How could he fight, kill, men he had trained, led, respected and fought alongside.
Save that for another day. One day at a time. Train. Prepare.
He yelled out an order, the wall breaking up, men setting down shields and pairing up for individual sparring.
‘You work your men hard,’ a voice called out to him and he turned to see Javed, the leader of the Freedmen, as they’d become known, who had been liberated from Lykos’ slave galleys, walking towards him.
‘No more than others,’ Veradis said to Javed, nodding to the Jehar warriors, whom he could see gathered under the trees, going through the forms of their sword dance. Elsewhere giants were sparring with the men of Isiltir, most of them warriors in cloaks of red and wielding sword and spear, but also others wrapped in thick furs and brandishing single-bladed axes. Veradis had learned that these were the survivors of a hold in the north, led by a warrior named Wulf. A serious man; Veradis liked him.
‘Looks like a lot of heavy lifting to me,’ Javed said, still grinning.
‘Not for you, then?’ Veradis asked.
‘I’ve done a lifetime of training in the pits,’ Javed said.
‘Some of your kind still train,’ Veradis said, pointing to Maquin, who had just returned from a dawn run and was now sparring against half a dozen of the men whom he had been given authority over in Ripa’s warband.
‘The Old Wolf,’ Javed said, ‘he’s a kind unto his own.’
‘Doesn’t look like it’s doing him any harm. For me, training keeps me sharp,’ Veradis said, ‘not just my body, but my mind.’
‘I believe in training,’ Javed said, ‘but I’d rather do it against a foe that bleeds and dies. That’s why I volunteer to join whatever team is raiding against our enemy. Every single day.’ His grin was gone now, fierce hatred burning in his eyes.
‘Of one thing I am sure, and one thing alone,’ Veradis said. ‘Battle is coming, and we will either be ready, or we will be dead.’
‘You’re a very serious fellow, are you not,’ Javed said, his smile returning as he wandered away. ‘But don’t worry about me, it won’t be me that’s doing the dying.’
Veradis found a trio of men to train with. Afterwards, sweating and weary, he made his way to a stream and washed down. For a moment he just sat resting against a tree.
He looked about and saw the bustle of normal camp life: foraging, collecting firewood, food and water, organizing meals, repairing garments and weapons. He saw Brina hurrying past, snapping orders to a dozen men, a giant following her. Elsewhere a row of figures were loosing arrows, a percussion of thuds as they hit their targets; a woman walked along their line checking them. Teca, her name was, a villager from the north of Narvon.
Woodsmen, hunters, brigands, warriors, giants – what a disparate band!
He blew out a long breath.
But do we actually have any hope of winning? We are outnumbered, out-positioned and not as experienced in battle. Calidus has played us all well. Prepared well for this war.
We cannot win.
We need more men. More women. More giants. More fighters.
I hope this Corban comes back to us at the head of a vast warband. That would be something.
He sighed.
‘Am I intruding?’ a voice said. Fidele was standing a dozen paces away.
‘Of course not, my lady,’ he said, making to rise.
‘No, please don’t,’ she said, stepping over and sitting beside him. A handful of her guards stood back, alert and watching.
She was dressed like a woodsman, in woollen breeches and shirt, a stout leather vest. And she had knives on her belt. Two that Veradis could see, and a hilt poking out from her boot.
She saw his gaze and laughed, genuine and warm.
‘You pick up the strangest habits when fleeing the Vin Thalun,’ she said with a shrug. ‘And I’ve had a good teacher.’ She glanced through the trees at Maquin, smiling at the sight of him. ‘Strange times we live in,’ she added.
‘I’m no one to judge, my lady. And if I may say, you seem happy.’
‘You may,’ she said with a dip of her head, ‘and I am.’ She looked back to Maquin, watching him sway and duck, moving around his sparring assailants like forest mist, never being touched.
‘And what the future holds, who knows?’ she said quietly, then looked back at Veradis. ‘We know only that we are alive, now.’
‘Indeed,’ Veradis agreed. She had changed so much since he had first met her. A king’s wife. The mother of his Prince, she had seemed born for that role, that high position beside Aquilus. Yet, now in the wilds of Forn Forest, she seemed more comfortable, more at ease than he had ever seen her before.
‘I want to see my son,’ Fidele said into the silence.
I want that, too. To speak to him, just to talk, me and him, as we used to. Without Calidus, or the Kadoshim hovering nearby.
‘Why?’
‘Because he is not evil.’
‘He is not,’ Veradis agreed.
‘And because he has been fooled—’
Veradis shook his head regretfully. ‘Maybe once, but he is fooled no longer. He knew exactly what was happening when I spoke to him in Brikan. You must trust me on this; I have been over it a thousand times in my head.’
‘He has been manipulated, then: forced onto a path that he now feels he cannot escape from. He is proud, would find it difficult to admit to such a mistake, but he can still choose . . .’
‘He has chosen,’ Veradis said angrily, the betrayal by his friend still a raw wound. ‘He asked me to make the same choice and made it sound so logical, so natural.’ Veradis sighed angrily, remembering Nathair’s argument to him in the tower room at Brikan, how history was written by the victors, that it was all a lie. That Elyon and Asroth, Kadoshim and Ben-Elim were just sides, warring realms or factions, like Ardan and Cambren. He had made it sound so reasonable.
I’ve thought many times on what Fidele
is saying. I want it to be true. To believe that Nathair would return to the right path, if only he had the right opportunity.
But would he?
‘It is all just talk, anyway,’ Veradis said. ‘Nathair is in Drassil with five thousand swords about him. Not just eagle-guard, but Vin Thalun and Kadoshim. And Calidus. It is impossible—’
‘Perhaps,’ Fidele said.
‘Why are you telling me this, my lady?’
‘Because only you can understand how I feel. He is like a brother to you. I know what you say is truth and sense, but if a way did present itself, for me to speak with Nathair.’ She stopped then, looked him in the eyes, and he saw a well of pain looking back at him. She reached out and squeezed his wrist.
‘Would you help me? If . . .’
He just stared, not knowing what to say.
Nathair slew his own father. Would she still believe in him, knowing that? And yet, there was good in him, once, I know it.
‘I—’
Footsteps sounded and Maquin appeared from amongst the trees, sweating and smiling.
‘Found you,’ he said, reaching out and trailing his fingers across Fidele’s shoulder as he made his way to the stream, discarded his clothes and jumped in. The water that splashed Veradis and Fidele was icy-cold, making them both gasp.
‘Think on it,’ she said, giving his wrist one last squeeze.
‘So that’s Drassil,’ Veradis said.
He’d joined a scouting party led by Tahir, along with Maquin, Alcyon and Tain. They were all in a row, lying on their bellies, peering out from the undergrowth at the open plain ringing the fortress, the walls and gates rising tall and forbidding, beyond them towers and the tree mingling in a twisted snarl.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
