by John Gwynne
He stared after Rafe for long moments – no sign of him within the forest gloom – then looked towards the sound of battle where Morcant fought on.
Another time, Rafe, Camlin vowed. I will hunt you down.
‘You rest here, now, girlie, where you’re safe, and I’ll be back soon enough,’ Camlin said to Meg, then he stood and hurried towards Edana, threading his way through a field of slaughter.
Only Morcant was still fighting. Even as Camlin watched, he cut his way through two more men in a last attempt to reach Edana. But a ring of warriors stood before her. Pendathran was bellowing orders on the giantsway, organizing the rounding-up of those who had surrendered, and Drust came cantering towards Morcant and Edana with a score of riders at his back.
We’ve done it. I can’t believe we’ve actually done it. All the planning, the tricks and traps and deceptions, I never dared think we’d actually win. Not when I saw Morcant galloping down the giantsway, over a thousand men at his back.
Morcant threw himself at the wall of men gathered before Edana, near enough bounced from their shields, chopped with his sword, splinters spraying, screamed in his fury, spittle flying. Then the wall parted and Halion stepped through it, dark hair tied back into his warrior braid, mail shirt red with gore, Edana behind him. She was blood-spattered, a sword in her hand now, spear gone. The blade was red. She walked tall, face fierce and exultant.
‘It’s over, Morcant,’ Edana said.
‘You foolish girl!’ Morcant snarled. ‘This means nothing. Rhin will return, and when she does . . .’ He looked at the warriors gathered silently about him. ‘Rhin will decorate this land with your innards. You’ll all be food for crows.’
‘If Rhin comes back, I’ll have a fine reception awaiting her,’ Edana said, voice proud and clear, ‘but that’s for another day. This day, we will be celebrating the freedom of Ardan.’
A cheer rose up, louder than the horn blasts.
A large ring had formed around Morcant, men stepping aside to let Camlin through, nodding at him, patting him on the back.
‘And now for you,’ Edana said, ‘Morcant, puppet of Rhin, slayer of women and bairns.’
A hand slipped into Camlin’s and he looked down to see Meg standing there, glaring at Morcant with a ferocious look upon her face.
Morcant just stared at Edana, proud and haughty.
‘This glade stirs memories within me,’ Edana continued, ‘of a glade in the Darkwood, where I was riding with my mother, Queen Alona. You led that ambush. My mam . . .’ She looked around at the glade. ‘Ironic, that your end should happen here, in this way. Tricked, taken by surprise in a forest glade. My mother died soon after, you know.’
‘I remember,’ Morcant said. ‘I remember hearing that news, and I was glad.’
‘And I shall be glad to watch you die, now,’ she replied.
Morcant spat on the floor, then lunged at her, fast as anything Camlin had ever seen. Morcant had been a half-dozen strides from Edana, but he covered them in a heartbeat, sword whipping out as fast as a snake, aiming straight at her heart. Camlin tried to move, reached for an arrow, but it was as if he were moving through water compared to Morcant’s speed.
Then Halion was knocking Morcant’s sword aside, punching Morcant on the jaw, sending him sprawling, stepping into the space between Morcant and Edana.
‘Get up,’ Halion said.
Morcant didn’t need telling twice; he leaped up, circled to Halion’s left, sword extended, hovering low.
‘You’re not even from Ardan,’ Morcant said to him.
‘That is of no ma—’ Halion began, then Morcant was lunging at him, sword-point darting high. Halion knocked it away, parried a sideways slash from Morcant. A roll of Morcant’s wrist and he stabbed at Halion’s throat. Again the blow was slapped away, Halion’s gaze fixed on Morcant’s eyes. Then Halion took a shuffling step forwards, feinted low and struck high, stepped back with blood on his sword-tip, a thin line trickling down Morcant’s cheek.
‘I’ve seen you fight,’ Halion shrugged, then he was walking forwards slowly, Morcant darting blows at him, lunges, short savage chops, looping two-handed strokes, but Halion seemed to walk through them, parrying, counter-striking, Morcant retreating, circling left and right, probing for weaknesses in Halion’s defence. His blows came faster, fluid combinations that rained down upon Halion from all angles and his advance stopped, Halion setting his feet and weathering Morcant’s barrage. Slowly Halion began to counter, first a single blow here, a parry turned into a strike there, then striking again and again, until they were trading back and forth at each other, blow for blow, the speed a blinding blur. Camlin watched, entranced by their skill.
Then Morcant took a step back, breaking the hypnotic power of their contest.
Halion watched him, still fixed on Morcant’s eyes.
Morcant was breathing heavily now, sucking in deep breaths, one hand on his knee, sword-point dug in the earth. Morcant leaned on his weapon as if it was a walking stick.
‘You don’t fight, like your brother,’ Morcant breathed.
‘I could have told you that,’ Halion said.
‘Rhin knows, you know. About your brother,’ Morcant said.
‘Knows what?’
‘That Conall set you free, from Dun Taras’ dungeon.’
Halion’s eyes narrowed.
‘She’ll kill him for it, when she’s ready. Use him first, of course. But then . . .’
‘You’re lying,’ Halion snarled.
‘Really? Then how did I know who set you free?’
Halion frowned.
Morcant jerked his wrist, flicking earth from his sword-point at Halion’s face. Halion swayed away, but Morcant was attacking. His sword, stabbing at Halion’s throat, grated off Halion’s torc, left a red line. He pressed on, chopped down at Halion’s thigh, Halion blocking frantically, Morcant relentlessly pressing Halion back, towards Edana. Their blades clashed, grated, clashed again, then Morcant was in close, slipping his foot behind Halion’s and shoving him hard in the chest. Halion spun gracefully away.
‘See you’ve been learning from Conall,’ Halion said. ‘Unlikely to work on me, though.’
‘Depends what result you’re after,’ Morcant smiled. Watching, Camlin realized that as Halion and Morcant had fought, Halion had remained between Morcant and Edana, but now, to avoid Morcant’s trip, Halion had spun away from the young Queen and Morcant was standing only two paces away from her, nothing between them but air.
Morcant grinned, moving in a blur, his sword snaking out, slicing towards Edana’s throat.
An arrow punched into Morcant’s side, staggering him half a dozen paces.
Camlin stepped into the circle, another arrow already nocked and drawn. He loosed as Morcant gathered himself and took an unsteady step towards Edana, the arrow slamming into Morcant’s belly, piercing leather and mail, sinking deep. Morcant grunted, sank to one knee, his sword dropping from his fist. He looked up at Camlin.
‘Should have killed you, back in the Darkwood,’ Morcant whispered. He swayed and coughed blood, speckling his chin.
‘Aye,’ grunted Camlin, striding closer, another arrow on his bow, nocked and aimed at Morcant’s heart. ‘But you didn’t. Instead it’s me killing you.’
He stopped a pace or two away from Morcant and looked to Edana. She gave him a curt nod.
Camlin’s arrow flew from his bow, plunging into Morcant’s chest, half the shaft disappearing, the force of it slamming Morcant onto his back. He looked up at Camlin, whispered something and then his eyes glazed, sightless.
A silence settled over the glade.
‘Hang his body from a tree,’ Edana snarled. ‘Let Craf have what’s left of him.’
‘Thank you,’ a voice cawed from the branches.
Camlin walked through the streets of Dun Carreg. It was sunset, with long shadows. The sun was warm upon his back but a chill was filling the world.
Despite the day’s victory, Camlin’s mood
was melancholy. Despite how easy it had been to walk into Dun Carreg, the people overwhelming the handful of guards manning the gates before Edana’s warband had even crossed the bridge to Stonegate, despite the celebrations that had welcomed them into the streets, and despite the feast that was even now going on in the feast-hall.
It was Baird’s death more than anything that had stayed with him. A good man. A brave man. One whom Camlin had trusted.
A friend.
Not so many of them about. And one less, now.
His feet took him to the courtyard before Stonegate, the doors closed and barred now. A few men milled by the gatehouse. Camlin angled away from them, raising a hand to their cheerful greetings, and climbed the stairwell.
Guardsmen stood on the wall, spears in one hand, skins of mead in the other.
And why not? It’s a night to celebrate, if ever there was one. I remember the night this fortress fell, the night we ran, fled, across a sea, two realms. And here I am back again.
A solitary figure stood apart on the battlements, gazing out over the land. A big man, neck muscled like a bull. Camlin stood beside him. Beyond the steep drop of the wall the world spread before him, the sinking sun painting the meadows and coves, woodland and pastures in hues of amber and pink.
‘I’m surprised you’re not dead, No-Neck,’ Camlin said. ‘Glad you’re not, is what I mean.’
‘Got a hard head,’ Brogan grunted, a bandage wrapped around his skull.
‘For sure.’
They stood in companionable silence for several minutes, watching the grey of dusk seep into the world.
‘I’m going after Rafe, on the morrow,’ Camlin said. ‘Leaving at first light.’
Brogan glanced at him. ‘Thought you’d be staying here a while,’ he said.
‘Job’s done here,’ Camlin muttered. ‘And we have the necklace. It’s not much use here, and I’m thinking Corban and the others could do with it.’
‘That the only reason you’re going?’ Brogan asked.
‘No. Thought Baird deserved better’n that, today. Doesn’t sit well with me, celebrating, when Rafe’s out there, and my guess is he’s headed after Rhin. Least I can do is send him after Baird.’
Brogan grunted and looked back out over the landscape. ‘I’ll come,’ he said after a while.
The shadows deepened and torches were lit. Camlin thought he saw movement beyond the bridge, a denser shape in the shadows. He stared hard, but saw no more sign of movement. Then he heard footsteps entering the courtyard. He looked back and saw Edana there, changed from her blooded war gear, but still in breeches, shirt and leather jerkin, a sword hanging at her hip. Her cloak was a little finer, dyed the grey of Ardan, edged in ermine. Halion and Vonn were with her.
There was a whisper of wings in the darkness, the scrape of talons on stone.
‘Here you are, then,’ Edana said, climbing the steps. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
‘Why’s that, my Queen,’ Camlin said, giving her a bow. He had to admit, it did feel good to see her home, after years of running, living on the road. He smiled at her.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘The cloak suits you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling in return.
‘Now, my lady, what is it that I can do for you on this night of nights, when you should be feasting and basking in the glory of your victory.’
‘I just wanted to tell you not to drink too much tonight,’ Edana said, ‘because we’ve an early start on the morrow and a long journey ahead of us.’
Camlin frowned. ‘What journey?’
‘I’m going to take the starstone necklace to Corban, and I’m taking as many men as Pendathran can spare me,’ she said. ‘No doubt Rhin will have every intention of coming back and trying to take my realm away from me, so I thought, I might as well kill the old bitch now, and do us and the world a favour.’
‘FINALLY,’ Craf squawked triumphantly, hopping into the torchlight.
Vonn blinked at Edana’s language, a smile twitching Halion’s lips.
‘I think you’ve been spending too much time with a Darkwood brigand,’ Camlin said. ‘You’re starting to think and talk like one.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CORALEN
Coralen was positioned on a ridge, her strung bow propped against a tree beside her as she stared through a gap in thick foliage at the western perimeter of Lothar’s warband. She listened to the wet slap of axes meeting wood, rhythmic and constant as teams of woodcutters felled trees, orders shouted to a myriad of workers, the creak of wains as they rolled heavily laden along fresh-laid wooden tracks, the whinny and neigh of horses and rattle of chains as they dragged logs. And in the distance, behind them all, the slow creep of Lothar’s warriors.
For half a moon now Coralen had commanded the attack on Nathair and Lothar’s warbands, a war of attrition that was proving frustratingly slow. Her network of scouts tracking and mapping the progress of the warband as it edged remorselessly towards Drassil estimated that it, and its road, would be at Drassil within two moons.
How are we going to stop them?
It was proving to be extremely difficult to disrupt or obstruct the road-building in any significant way, and Elyon knew that Coralen had tried, because those had been Corban’s last words to her.
Until I arrive, just slow that warband down, he’d said. Harass them, unnerve, demoralize them. And kill as many as you can.
Coralen had planned and led more than a score of raids now. She had over a hundred hand-picked men, women and giants in her crew, and they had struck at workers, paddocks, latrines, grain stores in the camp itself, and while they had always come away with few casualties and a handful of kills between them, the strikes were never as successful as Coralen had envisaged they would be. The most effective of the raids had been on the supply train that wound the long road behind the warband, stretching all the way to Helveth in the south, but even that had not seemed to have much of an effect on the constant roll of the warband towards Drassil.
It’s because of those damn eagle-guard and their wall of shields.
No matter what her tactics, the eagle-guard were incredibly disciplined, and whether the raids took place in night or day, at dawn or dusk, within heartbeats Coralen would hear that now-hated sound of shields thudding together as Nathair’s eagle-guard formed protective walls about whoever was being attacked.
It was beyond frustrating.
Corban will be here soon with more swords. We need to sow fear. To whittle down numbers, make them miserable and scared before they meet us in battle.
She shifted, felt the damp of the earth she was lying upon seeping into her breeches. Behind her she heard the pad of Storm, quiet yet heavy, and the scuffle of smaller paws as three of her cubs followed her. Storm’s muzzle sniffed Coralen’s cheek, then licked her.
‘Yuk,’ Coralen muttered absently. Movement caught her eye, a few hundred paces to her right, and she saw Dath, just for a heartbeat, as he settled into his position. There were more of her people out there, she knew. Over a score of them spread around this section of the camp.
Then she heard the creak of a wain as the guard-line parted and more eagle-guard appeared, stepping out of the protection of the camp and into the twilight of Forn.
Here they come.
Six men walking in a tight line, shields overlapping, behind them a shaggy-coated auroch pulling a wain, then another. Eagle-guard marched in column either side of the wains, and another six brought up the rear. A handful of men walked behind each wain, shovels over their shoulders, eyeing the forest.
Twenty-four eagle-guard, ten labourers.
The wains were piled full of night-soil, taking it to be dumped in the forest away from the camp – a sensible measure to reduce the chances of sickness and infection.
Coralen rose into a crouch and followed them, Storm and her cubs slipping into the shadows.
The small convoy wound its way into the forest, picking a
way between high-branched trees. It stopped no more than six or seven hundred paces from the camp. Coralen crouched behind a thorn bush, drew an arrow from the quiver at her belt, nocked it, and waited.
The eagle-guard formed a loose ring as the labourers began emptying the wains.
Coralen counted fifty heartbeats, then drew her bow and aimed, finding a guard with his shield held too low.
Her arrow took him in the throat. He dropped, choking on his own blood.
Then arrows were flitting from the forest, a buzz of angry wasps. Two more guardsmen and four labourers fell before the shields were up and horns were sounded. Answering horns rang out from the camp. A huge spear slammed into a shield, piercing it, throwing the eagle-guard to the ground.
They have too few men, only enough for one row of men around the wains. They cannot reinforce any gaps – if a man falls they will become impossibly stretched.
Another spear hissed out of the forest, one of the auroch was bellowing.
Only heartbeats left before reinforcements from the camp come running. It’s now or never.
Coralen burst from her cover, running at the wall of shields.
‘Storm,’ she called, even as she saw others of her crew closing in around the wains, a shuffle of shields as the eagle-guard saw Coralen coming, and other forms emerging from the forest, mostly archers, men and women, three giants with hammer and axe.
Coralen stopped a dozen paces from the shield wall, respecting their blades, an arrow drawn and aimed. Dath stood beside her.
Eagle-guard stood staring at Coralen, quietly confident that they could withstand any hail of arrows or blows for the small amount of time it would take for their sword-brothers to arrive.
Then Storm was leaping past Coralen, high, over the eagle-guard with their shields, landing behind them with a roaring snarl beside a wain, a swipe of her claws disembowelling one of the labourers, then she was spinning, throwing herself at the eagle-guard from behind.
Screams rang out, blood spurting in fountains, and Coralen and Dath were loosing arrows into the gaps appearing as men in the wall turned, died. A giant skewered a man with a spear and lifted him bodily into the air, hurling him into the forest.
