by John Gwynne
‘I do,’ Lykos whispered, his mind abruptly cast back to a windswept starry night on a hilltop, surrounded by the glistening velvet of the sea. A fire, a pot, knife and blood.
And Asroth. He felt the scar across his palm.
‘There will be more, so much more, if we win this war,’ Calidus said. ‘Riches and rewards beyond your wildest dreams.’
My dreams can be very wild, but I like the sound of that. Though when Calidus talked of dreams only one thing hovered in Lykos’ mind. Fidele.
She could be my reward.
But what of Nathair? He would take a very dim view of how I would wish things to turn out.
Lykos licked his lips.
‘We need the starstone torc. Bring it back to me, make the end of this war that much closer.’ Calidus’ grip upon Lykos’ shoulder tightened, became painful, but Lykos did not shrink away.
‘I will,’ Lykos said, ‘or die in the trying.’
‘Good,’ Calidus smiled, teeth glinting in the moonlight. He released Lykos’ shoulder.
‘Onwards, then.’
And with that they were moving out, his men shouldering their five boats, the great gates opening. Calidus stopped at the gateway and Lykos passed beneath the deep stone archway, leading the way out onto the dark plain, Legion beside him, the other ten Kadoshim split between vanguard and rearguard.
Ninety-two of us, all told. Hardly the hugest warband the world has seen, but this is all I will need. Speed and stealth is the key, and good men at my back if it comes to a scrap.
They crossed the plain quickly enough, soon reaching the treeline, where they took advantage of Jael’s road for a short while. They left it when the road curled north-west, and carved their way north into the forest. It was not long before Lykos heard the sound of running water.
The river was wide, sparkling with foam, the current strong.
It’ll be hard going, rowing a hundred leagues up this beast, but it’s better than walking through Forn.
Lykos oversaw the boats being set into the river, mooring them to trees, steering rudders set into their fixings, oars threaded through oarlocks, masts and sails tied tight, not enough wind to make them useful.
‘Lads, when you’re done, have a breather,’ Lykos said. ‘I’ll be back soon. Hesp, Damas, with me.’ He turned and paced along the riverbank, heading west, the two Vin Thalun setting off after their lord.
‘Where are you going?’ a voice said behind him; Legion was joining them. The familiar buzzing of flies surrounded his voice.
‘Going to see an old friend,’ Lykos said.
‘The mission,’ Legion growled.
‘Will be fine,’ Lykos grunted, ‘I’ll not go far.’
Legion fell in beside him, the four of them passing through dense undergrowth, climbing over fallen trees, skirting around thickets with as little noise as possible, always keeping the river within hearing distance. They came across Jael’s road, clambering up the embankment and down the other side, and then travelled on a while longer.
Did that half-breed bitch lie to me? Lykos thought, the sense that he should stop and turn back growing and building inside him.
You’re being a fool, risking everything, and for what? Calidus would have my skin peeled if he knew. He glanced at Legion.
Just a few more paces, then I’ll turn back.
Yet still he walked on, his obsession drawing him like a lodestone.
Eventually Legion put a hand out and grabbed Lykos’ wrist. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, the Kadoshim’s flesh cold and clammy, flies crawling over Lykos’ arm.
‘We must be away before dawn,’ the Kadoshim said. ‘No further.’
Lykos felt a rush of anger. He didn’t take too well to Calidus telling him what to do, and he was damned if another Kadoshim was going to suffer with delusions of grandeur and start pushing him around.
Legion’s head snapped around, cocked to one side, listening, sniffing.
‘What?’ Lykos whispered, hand on the hilt of his short sword.
‘Something ahead,’ Legion said. He sniffed again, a long indrawn breath. ‘Something dead.’
‘Show me,’ Lykos said, excitement dancing in his belly.
Legion padded ahead of him, Lykos following, the Kadoshim stopping before a dense shadow, big as a boulder. The whiff of rot hit Lykos’ nose. He reached out, touched the boulder-like shadow before Legion, felt fur, a ridge of bone. Looking down, he saw a huge head, flesh from the muzzle gnawed away, revealing a set of long sharp teeth.
‘What is it?’ Legion muttered.
‘A giant bear,’ Lykos said. He was grinning and started to walk on.
‘Just a little further,’ he whispered into the darkness.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
FIDELE
‘How will you get in?’ Fidele asked Veradis.
‘I haven’t quite figured that out, yet,’ Veradis said, frowning. ‘We’ll need a diversion so we won’t be scrutinized too closely.’
Fidele was standing with the leaders of the resistance, all of them looking at Veradis and his hundred or so men, the warriors clothed in the black and silver of Tenebral. Veradis’ cuirass was polished to a high shine, the white eagle bright upon his chest. The men behind them had blacked out the sigil on their breastplates, the tower of Ripa.
Fidele held a torch high and peered closer at the first row.
‘It won’t bear up to any kind of close inspection,’ she said, not for the first time.
‘That’s why I need to do it at night, and why some kind of diversion needs to be happening,’ Veradis shrugged.
‘We could fake an attack on Drassil’s walls, make some noise . . .’ Balur said.
‘Are you sure this is wise?’ Fidele asked Veradis.
Veradis tugged at his short beard. ‘No,’ he said eventually, ‘but there are prisoners being tortured to death in there, every day. Our people.’
He is a good man. In many ways the man I wish my son had grown into. Fidele felt a twist of pain at that thought, a pinch upon her heart.
‘If we can get through the gates I can take you to the hospice where they are all kept,’ Ilta the Jehar said. She was standing in the ranks of Veradis’ men, wearing one of their cuirasses, her long black hair bound up and pinned within an iron helm.
‘Won’t you be recognized?’ Krelis asked Veradis. ‘Aside from the Draig’s Teeth, which you hope have gone with Nathair, there are likely to be others who recognize you. Like Calidus. There are close to another two thousand eagle-guard wandering around inside those walls.’
‘I know,’ Veradis muttered. ‘I thought to boil up some tree bark and dye my hair.’ He shrugged and smiled sheepishly. ‘And it will be dark,’ he added.
‘I could do it,’ Krelis said.
He fears for his brother, but would never say it, so he seeks to find another way.
‘Don’t be a fool, you’re as tall as a giant,’ Brina said snorting her contempt. ‘The idea is to be inconspicuous.’
‘We should wait, think on it some more,’ Alben said.
‘Why?’ Veradis said. ‘Every day more will die. This plan is as good as it’s going to get. I would go tonight.’ His eyes flicked between Fidele and Brina, who out of this disparate council of captains seemed to have gravitated to the position of leaders.
Fidele looked at Veradis; the man was earnest, brave.
I admire him for wanting to do this, but it could end in disaster.
‘It would be a bold strike,’ Javed said, smiling. ‘One that we’d sing songs about. I’d like to come.’
‘And trust you to keep your knives sheathed amongst all those Vin Thalun?’ Wulf said.
‘No,’ Veradis said. ‘Only me and my men. Discipline and a knowledge of the shield wall’s formations are essential. Your strengths are best used elsewhere,’ he added to Javed.
‘So?’ Veradis asked, looking again to Brina and Fidele.
Brina gave a short nod.
‘Go with our blessing,’ Fide
le said, ‘and come back to us alive.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Veradis grinned.
There he is, Fidele thought, standing and watching the day’s scouts returning. Maquin was amongst those coming back. She enjoyed the sense of relief that flowed through her body, the same as she always felt upon his safe return.
This is Forn; it is not just Kadoshim, Vin Thalun and eagle-guard that are our enemy out there.
She smiled, relishing the sight of him, all lean muscle and gracefulness, an economy in every step, nothing wasted or overdone. He saw her and returned her smile, his stern face of sharp lines, scars and shadows transformed for a few moments.
‘What’s going on? Looks like someone’s kicked an ants’ nest,’ he asked as he reached her, sweeping her into a bone-crushing embrace, their lips meeting. She loved that he did that, no regard for status or standing, just the two of them, as if the world around them did not exist.
‘Veradis is leading a rescue attempt on the prisoners inside Drassil,’ she said.
‘What? I knew he’d been thinking about something, but tonight? I’d best go see where he wants to use me,’ Maquin said, taking a step away.
‘I’ll tell you the plan,’ she said, gripping his hand and pulling him away. ‘After.’
‘After what?’
She smiled and led him away.
‘What’s the occasion?’ Maquin asked as Fidele gestured to the ground. A small patch of grass and wildflowers alongside a narrow stream, furs of bear and deer laid out upon it, with two cups and a skin of something, as well as fresh-cooked meat and vegetables.
‘I wanted to talk with you,’ Fidele said. ‘It is rare, living as we are, to have any privacy.’
‘It is,’ Maquin agreed.
‘So,’ she said, gesturing at the furs.
Maquin reclined on them and Fidele poured him a cup of mead, some of the last from the supplies they’d taken from Gundul’s camp. She watched him drink, Maquin’s eyes never leaving Fidele’s.
They ate in silence, slowly, enjoying each other’s company, the fact that they didn’t have to speak.
Fidele poured Maquin some more mead.
When they had finished eating, Fidele sat straighter. ‘I want to talk to you about . . . after,’ she said.
Maquin blinked at her.
Not what he was expecting, then. Even the champion of the pits can be taken by surprise sometimes.
‘You’re a queen; me –’ he paused, brows furrowing – ‘I’m not sure what I am any more. Was a shieldman, then one of the Gadrai, next a slave, then a pit-fighter. Now, I don’t know what you’d call me. Except happy.’ He smiled at her, a shy, tentative shifting of his lips, almost out of place on the face of this death-dealer before her. ‘But, whatever you feel you need to say, I understand. You’ve the responsibility of a realm upon your shoulders, I—’
‘Quiet,’ Fidele ordered.
Maquin looked as if he was going to argue for a moment, but then he shrugged, lay back on one elbow and waited for her to speak.
‘I am a woman who sees things as they are, and I think this war will most likely be the end of us,’ she said. ‘Not just you and me, but all of us. We are outnumbered, and our enemy are terrible. Kadoshim, a nation of Vin Thalun.’ She shook her head. ‘My own son and his warband, most of the strength of Tenebral. But we fight on, because it is what we should do. But the chances of us surviving this . . .’
‘Are slim,’ Maquin finished for her.
‘Aye. But if we manage those rarest of things, both to win and to survive, then I would have you know that to me at least, this, us, is for always. Not just now, or while this war lasts, but for as long as I draw breath.’ She had held his gaze throughout every word. ‘You are precious to me,’ she finished, her courage fading at the last, her eyes dropping away.
A silence settled on them. The chattering of the stream, the sounds of Veradis’ warband making ready for their expedition, all faded around her.
Maquin moved, suddenly close to her, a handspan between them, and her heart was racing. He leaned closer and kissed her lips, a soft caress.
‘I came back from death for you,’ he said, his voice a whispered tremor. ‘For me it was always forever, however long that may be. And those words you just spoke, they are the greatest gift I’ve ever been given. They are written upon my heart and soul.’
‘Then let me give you another gift,’ she said, smiling, her heart soaring, grabbing his leather jerkin and pulling him onto her.
Maquin’s gentle snoring tickled Fidele’s ear. She’d been lying beside him, running a finger along the contour of his jaw, down his neck and across his chest, most of it criss-crossed by an abundance of scars. The two of them lay wrapped in fur, bodies entwined. Slowly, carefully, Fidele extricated herself, stood and dressed. When she was ready, she bent and kissed his cheek.
‘Forgive me,’ she whispered, then stood and slipped to where Agost and her shieldmen were a few dozen paces away, waiting for her.
‘All is ready,’ Agost said, handing Fidele her spear.
‘Who is staying with Maquin?’ Fidele asked.
‘Spyr,’ Agost said, and a warrior stepped forwards, a younger man, dark-haired.
‘Give him this when he wakes,’ Fidele said, handing Spyr a rolled parchment scroll. ‘It will likely not be before highsun.’
Brina’s sleeping potion is powerful.
Fidele had asked Brina for it a few days ago, saying she had trouble sleeping and it had been simple enough to slip it into the skin of mead that Maquin had drunk from.
Maquin would have tried to stop me, fearing for my safety. But I know what I am doing is right. It must be done.
‘Come, then,’ Fidele said, and strode through the camp, her half-dozen shieldmen wrapping around her, Agost at their head. Veradis and his men were moving out, marching into the forest, torchlight and darkness revealing giants moving like shadowy trees. Fidele and her men attached themselves to the rearguard, marching with them out of the camp and into the forest. She stayed with them for a while, then Agost signalled to her and they dropped back a little, stopped beside the trunk of a huge tree and waited for Veradis’ men to disappear into the darkness.
‘This way, my lady,’ Agost said, and they turned away from the warband’s path, heading east for a while.
The plan was to find Jael’s road and take it south-east to the plain of Drassil. From there they would skirt the forest’s edge and follow the path that Nathair’s draig and warband had trampled through Forn.
I will find my son and speak to him. I will bring him back to us, if I can. And if not . . .
Her hand rested fleetingly upon the knife hilt at her belt.
She felt a pang of regret at not telling Maquin, at not confiding in him. And worse, drugging him so that he would not stop her.
A fly buzzed around her head. She swiped at it, only for more to appear, loud in the darkness. In front of her Agost slowed and stopped, staring into the darkness.
‘Ware!’ Agost yelled, sword hissing from his scabbard.
One of Fidele’s guards fell into her, blood spurting from his throat as he toppled to the ground.
Fidele gripped her spear two-handed, spread her feet, spear-tip pointing at the darkness. Iron clashed behind her and she spun around, saw her guards fighting furiously against a black-clad figure, curved sword in his hand.
Fear clutched a fist around her heart.
Kadoshim. What are they doing out here? My men! What have I done?
She heard Agost’s grunts, and she turned back to him, saw him trading blows with a bearded man in leather vest and breeches, a short sword in his hand, flesh pale in the moonlight.
A man. Better.
She gritted her teeth and stabbed her spear into his thigh. His face stared at her, shocked, as Agost finished him, hacking him down. She saw the glint of iron rings in his braided beard.
Vin Thalun.
Fidele turned, saw another of her men falling, an arc of black dro
plets.
A hand grabbed her wrist and she swung her spear like a staff, stopped when she saw it was Agost.
‘This way,’ he snarled. There was blood on his face.
Fidele looked at her men locked in combat.
‘Leave them; they fight for you to survive. They will come if they can,’ Agost grunted, dragging her a dozen paces, until a black shadow of a figure rose up in front of them, curved sword held high. Her vision was blurred; flies everywhere were drowning out other sound. She stabbed out half-blind, felt her blade bite into flesh.
The Kadoshim hacked at her spear shaft, splintering it.
Agost was there, his sword stabbing into the Kadoshim’s throat, but it grabbed the blade and ripped it from Agost’s grip, hurling it away into the undergrowth. Fidele drew her knife and threw herself at the Kadoshim, hacking at its neck, determined to saw its head from its body. The Kadoshim ignored her, chopped down at Agost as he tried to rise, the curved sword denting Agost’s helm, sending him crashing back to the ground.
A fist snared in Fidele’s hair, yanking her off the Kadoshim as she saw the creature grabbing Agost and lifting him up.
There was a wet ripping sound, Agost screaming sharp and loud, gurgling, the shieldman’s arms flailing at the Kadoshim tearing at him. Then Agost was limp, silent, only the sounds of an animal feasting.
Fidele fought the urge to vomit, tried to spin in her attacker’s grip; her knife still in her fist, she stabbed it at her assailant’s waist, but a fist slammed into her jaw and she saw an explosion of stars, strength draining from her like water from a holed bucket and she slumped, only the fist still entwined in her hair keeping her upright.
‘Hello Fidele,’ Lykos said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CYWEN
Cywen lay in her cot, staring at the Vin Thalun guard by the door. It was dark, probably the other side of midnight by now, and still the guard sitting in the hospice was awake.
You’re usually snoring by now.
She heard a creak behind her, someone shifting in their bed.
Hild. Maybe she senses something. Cywen had been desperate to tell her of the plans. She wanted to tell everyone, to run through the hospice and warn them that tonight was the night. Over two hundred prisoners were in the hospice, none really unwell or needing treatment, now. Two were without limbs – one on a crutch, the other missing an arm to the elbow – but all were in their right minds, capable of making a decision, capable of leaving.
