by John Gwynne
We are on the outskirts of the forest.
He ran faster.
Soon after, he broke from the trees into open ground. There were patches of woodland around him, but open meadow as well. The sky was blue and clear of cloud, a pale, cold sun looking down on Maquin. And ahead of him the land rose into a steep hill, the river foaming and tumbling down slick-black rocks, not quite a waterfall. They all stopped, looking at the hill and cascading river.
‘They won’t have rowed up that,’ Teca called out from the far bank, hands cupped to her mouth.
‘Not likely,’ Maquin grunted.
Soon they found tracks. The scrape of hulls on mud. Boot-prints. Maquin found a set that were much smaller, and his heart raced.
Fidele’s prints. They must be.
The tracks led up the hill, following a rock-strewn winding path that twisted its way alongside the fast-flowing river.
New energy fired Maquin, the idea of being closer driving him, fear and rage swirling in his gut at the thought of what he might find when he finally caught up with Lykos.
He was the first to reach the top, just as the sun was setting over Forn behind him. He climbed onto a granite boulder beside the river and stared into the realm of Arcona as the others puffed their way onto flat ground.
An ocean of grass opened out before him, undulating and sighing into the horizon, a cold wind rolling off it. The river cut a dark line through the ocean of green, and as Maquin tracked it he saw a lake unfold in the distance, a dark stain upon the land. An island of tree and rock stood at its centre.
And on a stretch of the river, just before the lake, were five darker dots, moving slowly, spilling into the lake.
Lykos – I’m coming for you.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CORBAN
Corban stood on a mountain ledge, oil-black clouds boiling above him, wreathing the peak. He whispered a word.
Meical.
Wind streamed around him, tugging at his hair, his cloak. Below him a vast land stretched, colour leached from it, valleys and plains, rivers and lakes painted in shades of grey. In the distance a great mountain reared, in the air about it a host of dark shapes swirled, like crows or bats. The air was thick with them, a black halo.
But it is too far away; those shapes cannot be birds.
Kadoshim.
There was a rushing of air behind him, a gentle impact.
‘That is the host of the Kadoshim,’ a voice said.
Meical.
Two more Ben-Elim were with him, white-feathered and gleaming in their mail shirts and silver greaves.
‘You look better than the last time I saw you,’ Corban said, and Meical did. He looked strong again, and the red weal around his neck was healed, only a thin silver scar remained. Meical was dressed in scaled mail, a long spear in his hand, sword at his hip, jet hair bound and tied with silver wire. He looked like a god. A memory of lies and tears flashed through Corban’s mind.
‘I heard you call me,’ Meical said, his expression troubled. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To observe my enemies.’
‘I am glad you have come. I’ve long wished to speak with you again.’
Corban looked at him, felt a stirring of his anger, but it faded, replaced by something else.
‘I hated you,’ he said sadly.
Meical regarded him with his purple-tinged eyes. ‘And do you still?’
Corban shrugged. ‘No. Now when I think of you I mostly feel . . . grief.’
‘I am sorry,’ Meical whispered, and the Ben-Elim behind him stiffened.
‘I know you are,’ Corban said. ‘What did you wish to speak of with me?’
‘You found your friends?’
‘Some. The ones that still live.’
‘And you fight on. Against Calidus. How goes it?’
‘Why would I tell you?’ Corban frowned.
Again, the two Ben-Elim behind Meical bridled at that, one of them hissing.
‘Because, regardless of how things stand between us, we share a common enemy. We both want the same thing.’
‘Do we?’ Corban asked. ‘I do not think we do, entirely.’
‘Elyon’s creation protected. Asroth destroyed,’ Meical said, staring at the demon-wreathed peak in the distance.
‘I want my loved ones safe. Alive. I want my mam and da avenged. I want to protect the people of the Banished Lands,’ Corban said. ‘Asroth does not have to be destroyed for that. Calidus and Nathair – now they are another question . . .’
Meical gave him a quizzical look. ‘Asroth is the author of every evil that has befallen you,’ he said.
‘Not every evil,’ Corban said. ‘But I take your point. Many of them, and yes, he is our common enemy.’
‘We could still fight him together.’
‘That would be hard, when I no longer trust you,’ Corban said. He was not speaking from rage or malice, but the truth as he felt it. It was strange, because he saw that his words hurt Meical far more than anything he could have said in the grip of spiteful rage.
‘I give you my oath, I will not deceive you again.’
Corban nodded at that. ‘Trust must be built.’
‘Yes,’ Meical said. ‘That is all I ask.’
‘Why do you not just attack him, here?’
‘We are . . . taking steps,’ Meical said. ‘You glimpsed the Ben-Elim preparing for war, the last time you were here.’
Corban remembered the sounds of combat in that high mountain fortress, the sight of winged warriors sparring, thousands of them. He nodded.
‘But Asroth is protected here. Has spent many an age building his defences about the peaks of Ufernol.’
‘Nothing’s ever simple,’ Corban remarked.
‘Hah, that is a truth,’ Meical barked, a smile ghosting his lips. ‘I have missed you, Corban, and the company of your kind. I did not realize how attached I had become to you all.’ He looked intently at Corban. ‘Does Calidus have all of the Treasures?’
Corban looked at Meical, was silent a while.
‘No, not yet,’ he finally said.
‘They are vital to your cause,’ Meical said.
‘We have come to the same conclusion,’ Corban agreed.
‘You should let me help you. At the very least, I can give you good counsel.’
Corban frowned at that. ‘Brina is my counsellor, and we already have a plan,’ he said.
‘Asroth means to become flesh,’ Meical said, his tone shifting, more forceful. ‘Let me help you.’
‘Calidus needs all of the Treasures for that to happen.’
‘You cannot hide the Treasures from Calidus,’ Meical said. ‘He will find them, eventually. It may take him years, but in the end he will have them all. He is inexorable. I could help you find the Treasures . . .’
‘I think they are all found,’ Corban said. ‘Rhin has the cup and necklace. There is a race for the torc. And the dagger . . .’ He stopped talking, felt that he’d said too much.
‘The dagger?’ Meical asked him. ‘Do you have it?’
‘I told you,’ Corban said. ‘We have a plan.’
‘You do not mean to destroy the Treasures?’ Meical said, a look of horror sweeping his face.
Corban stared at the distant mountain. He shifted his gaze to Meical. ‘You told me they cannot be destroyed.’
‘They cannot, unless they are gathered together . . .’ Meical’s eyes narrowed. ‘You must tell me your plan.’
‘As you have told me yours?’ Corban said.
With a growl, one of the Ben-Elim strode forwards and grabbed Corban by his shirt and jerkin. ‘Who are you to question the Ben-Elim, you foolish mortal,’ he hissed, lifting Corban from his feet, holding him over the ledge, dangling thousands of feet above the valley floor. ‘We are the Sons of the Mighty, the Firstborn, Guardians and Watchers. Immortal. And you . . .’ The Ben-Elim snarled, grabbing Corban’s chin and pointing him at the swirl of Kadoshim in the distance. ‘You see them? They woul
d storm your world. They would feast on your flesh, gnaw on your bones, turn your rivers and oceans to blood. We saw it once, and it was but a glimmer of their full intent, yet even so it was terrible. Elyon was there to stop it, then. He will not be there this time.’
‘Take your hands off me,’ Corban said, meeting the Ben-Elim’s baleful glare and returning it a thousandfold.
The Ben-Elim hissed.
Meical grabbed the Ben-Elim’s wrist. ‘Release him, Adriel,’ he commanded.
Adriel held Corban’s gaze a moment longer, then hurled him onto the ledge, Corban rolling and slamming against solid rock. He stood slowly, Adriel advancing on him, and Corban reached for his sword.
‘You must do as Meical tells you,’ the Ben-Elim growled, eyes blazing. ‘Only then will we have any hope—’
‘ENOUGH!’ Meical yelled, the sound of his voice buffeting Corban like the north wind.
‘Go back to your world of flesh, Corban, we will speak again,’ Meical said, then began whispering and Corban’s vision was blurring, the world around him fading. He heard Meical’s and Adriel’s voices, harsh, arguing, then nothing.
Corban awoke, dizzy, his mind full of the Otherworld, a memory of his feet dangling above endless cliffs. He groaned and sat up, Meical’s words ringing in his ears.
I need to tell Brina.
He stretched, slung his sword-belt over his shoulder, two scabbards on it, and made his way through their camp to a stream. People were stirring, fetching wood, boiling water, a thousand tasks happening methodically around him. He splashed water on his face, his skin goose-bumped.
It’s getting cold, sure enough, he thought, looking up at branches naked and stark, grey sky visible beyond the canopy.
Hunter’s Moon already. A moon away from winter. He stamped on the ground to warm his feet, leaves crunching underfoot, and heard footsteps behind him.
‘I know we’re friends,’ Corban said, ‘but you don’t have to shadow my every move.’
‘Think I do,’ Farrell said. ‘I’m your shieldman, remember, and I take that seriously. I can’t risk you wandering off and being abducted by giants again. I could never stand all that running.’ He shivered. ‘And besides, with Dath not here, I’d get all the blame. He’d never let me hear the end of it.’
Corban flicked water in his face. ‘All right, then. Come on.’
The camp was heaving with activity now. Corban could smell food cooking, behind it the sound and smell of the forge as bellows were pumped and the hammer began its work. Jehar were gathering for the sword dance, Gar beckoning to Corban to join in. Elsewhere he could hear the thud and crack of shields as Veradis drilled his men in the shield wall, orders bellowed, the wall rippling into different formations, extra shields on the flanks, raised above, marching.
‘It does look impressive,’ Corban said, and Farrell gave a grudging grunt.
In another part of the camp Wulf had his men from Gramm’s hold hurling their vicious throwing axes at targets – a succession of thuds as they all sank into wood. Laith was with them, throwing her daggers. She grinned at Farrell.
‘You and Laith?’ Corban said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Aye, me and Laith,’ Farrell grinned. ‘Who’d have thought, eh?’
Corban just patted his back.
‘You know what,’ Farrell said, eyes taking in the camp, ‘I think we might just be a force to be reckoned with.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ Corban said.
Though we are too few. Just too few.
Gar beckoned insistently to Corban.
‘Do I ever get a day off?’ Corban muttered, not that he really minded; he loved the sword dance. A day would not feel complete without it. As he was approaching Gar he heard the familiar sound of Storm’s padding gait, the drum of her cubs about her. She loped up to him, pushing her head against his chest as he leaned into her, tugged an ear.
‘What have you got for me, girl?’ Corban said, checking the leather thong around her neck; a scroll of parchment was tied to it. He unfurled it and read Coralen’s spidery script.
When he looked up he saw Veradis had joined him, as well as Gar, Brina, Balur and Ethlinn.
‘Two ten-nights before Nathair and Lothar’s warbands are at the gates of Drassil,’ Corban said, blowing his cheeks out. ‘We must make our move soon.’ He looked at Veradis.
‘They will be ready soon,’ Veradis said. ‘And then a few more days for some training.’
‘Training will not take long,’ Ethlinn said. ‘I suspect Balur and the others will take to it speedily.’
There was a commotion at the northern end of the camp and Akar emerged from the trees, a handful of Jehar with him, more of the camp guards appearing beside him.
Why so many?
Behind them there was the sound of branches snapping, and then a great bear was emerging from the foliage, a giant sitting calmly upon its back. Akar and his guards were warily escorting them into camp as the bear’s great head swayed from side to side, its lip curled in a contemptuous snarl.
The giant rider gazed at them with a similar expression, her blonde hair bound in a thick warrior braid, tattooed thorns swirling up one arm, the hilt of a longsword jutting over one shoulder.
‘My scouts found her close to Jael’s road,’ Akar said as he drew near. ‘She claims to know you, Corban.’
‘Aye. She saved my life,’ Corban said. ‘Well met, Sig,’ he continued as her bear stopped before him. He shifted his sword-belt, sliding the starstone dagger round to the small of his back. Storm padded to stand beside Corban, looking up at the bear, a silent growl vibrating in her chest. Beside her, the cubs growled and snapped. The bear ignored them.
Sig looked about at all those gathered around her, eyes hovering on the giants, especially Balur and Ethlinn, finally resting upon Corban.
‘This is Sig of the Jotun, first-sword of Eld,’ Corban said loudly.
‘Well met,’ Balur said to her. She looked down at him.
‘I know who you are, Balur One-Eye. Balur, slayer of Skald. And I guess that you are Ethlinn, seed of Balur and Nemain.’
‘I am,’ Ethlinn said, raising her chin. ‘And I am glad this day has come, the day I meet one of the mighty Jotun. You are welcome here.’
Sig gave her a stony stare, then shifted her gaze back to Corban.
‘I have something for you, Corban Bear-Slayer,’ she said, and unbuckled the fur-wrapped bundle strapped to the side of her saddle. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud; Corban knelt to unwrap it. It was a collection of chainmail, leather straps and iron buckles.
‘A gift from Varan, for your wolven,’ Sig said.
Corban ran his hands over the iron links and tooled leather etched with runes and whorls.
‘This is a fine gift,’ Corban marvelled, looking up at Sig.
‘I’ll tell him you’re grateful, then,’ Sig said, and with a whispered word and a light touch to her reins the bear was turning.
‘Wait,’ Corban called after her. ‘Stay, be welcome, eat with us.’
Sig ignored him, her bear lumbering through the camp and disappearing into the trees.
Corban looked at his friends and captains, then at the mail, finally at Storm.
‘Storm, lass, you are going to look fine when you go to war.’
CHAPTER EIGHTY
UTHAS
Uthas ran through the meadow in a loping gait, one he could maintain for days without end, feeling a cold wind blowing out of the north. He would have struggled to do this not so long ago, but not now.
I have drunk from the starstone cup, he exulted, basking in the strength and energy that coursed through his veins, the scents and sounds that clamoured for his attention, the knowledge that he would live another thousand years and more.
As long as I avoid an iron-tipped death.
Alongside him ran Salach, and behind was Eisa and the rest of the Benothi, fifty giants. They ran with a warband as big as any Uthas had seen from the Giant Wars. Over five thousand men, all
a-horse, riding across the rolling meadows of Isiltir, the sound of their passage like constant thunder.
Behind them Dun Kellen had long since disappeared. They had stopped there to re-provision. Now they were headed north-east, the cold wind against Uthas’ face a bitter fist greeting them from out of the Desolation, and to the east the brooding green of Forn Forest grew larger with every league travelled. They could have been in Forn already, close to Drassil, but Calidus had commanded that they take a different route. He wanted them to pass the Desolation, to visit a place named Gramm’s hold, and see if there was sign of the Jotun.
In the distance a hill appeared, upon its brown the dull gleam of stone walls.
‘This is giant-built,’ Salach said to Uthas as they strode through the stone-arched gateway into a courtyard of hard-packed earth at Gramm’s hold, a half-built keep of stone and wood looming over them.
‘And it is empty,’ Eisa called out as she appeared from one end of the courtyard, other scouts filtering through the hold echoing her call.
‘It will do for tonight,’ Rhin said as she rode through the gates behind Uthas, her warband spread across the great meadows about the hill and deserted hold like a rippled cloak of leather and iron, flesh and blood.
Uthas strode around the deserted hold. Everywhere were signs that this place had been inhabited once, and recently. Salach called him into a long building, a stable-block, separated into many pens and scattered with straw and hay. Uthas wrinkled his nose.
‘It was not horses that were kept here,’ Salach said, sifting through the straw with his axe-shaft, uncovering a pile of dung. ‘The creatures penned here were meat-eaters.’
‘Bears,’ Uthas murmured, and shared a look with Salach.
‘The Jotun,’ they said together.
Uthas called the clan about him and set them to searching the hold and surrounding area for any indication of where the Jotun were now. He marched with Salach and Eisa over the peak of the hill and saw a wide river curling across the land, a stone bridge arching across it, a road running from the bridge into a barren wasteland of rock and ash.
‘The Desolation,’ he whispered, twisting one of the wyrm teeth set in his necklace. Salach and Eisa just stared.
