by John Gwynne
Scratcher seemed to be taking it all in his stride, though, bounding around, sniffing as if it was all a new adventure.
Rafe settled his mount into its stable, cleaning his tack, rubbing the horse down, checking hooves, trimming them with a sharp knife. When he was done he walked along the stable-block, a long row of pens.
Something crashed into the stable door to his left and he threw himself away, slamming into the wall. A stallion’s head was looking at him over a stable door, had reared and kicked out as Rafe passed by.
It was a fine-looking animal, skewbald, white and tan patches. Rafe reached into his pocket and pulled out half an old apple and held it out. The horse snorted, then sniffed, then nibbled.
‘There y’a go, lad,’ Rafe said, rubbing its forehead. He unlocked the door and stepped inside and had a good look at the animal. It was tall and powerfully built, all muscle and spirit.
‘You’re a warhorse, sure enough, built for battle,’ he said, patting the stallion’s flank. ‘Not like the mare I’ve ridden half to death coming here.’ There was something familiar about him . . .
‘Nice animal,’ a voice said from over the stable door. It was Geraint, Rhin’s battlechief.
‘Have him saddled as a second mount for me on the morrow,’ Geraint said and strode off.
‘I might just forget to do that,’ Rafe whispered into the stallion’s ear, making it twitch. ‘Might be you end up as my horse, instead.’
Rafe walked out into the courtyard and climbed a stairwell to stand on the battlements above Drassil’s great gates. He whistled to himself as he looked west over a wide plain that rolled up to a wall of trees. The trees encircled the fortress, climbing high, a menacing ocean that rolled into the horizon, the red ball of the sun sinking into them, relinquishing the world to night. Above him the branches of Drassil’s great tree swayed, gusts of wind blew cold around him.
As he stared he saw movement in the treeline, shadowed figures, on the edge of dusk.
Behind him he heard footsteps, the slap of leather on stone, and a hand clapped him on the shoulder. It was Conall. Rafe pointed as the shadows from the treeline stepped into the light. There were a dozen figures, some mounted. Three giants. Two warriors on foot, one a woman with a shock of red hair that caught the sunlight. The other a man, standing beside a broad-chested wolven almost as big as a horse, its bone-white fur streaked with scars.
Rafe felt the breath catch in his chest, a rush of hatred.
Corban and Storm.
‘Cora, Hal?’ Conall whispered.
They both stared in silence.
Then Rafe’s eyes took in the riders, saw a blonde-haired woman cloaked in grey.
‘That’s Edana,’ Rafe said.
‘I think it is,’ Conall agreed.
‘How’d they get here so fast?’
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ Conall muttered.
They stared a while longer.
‘We’re wanted,’ Conall eventually said.
‘Who?’
‘Our masters, who else?’ Conall said with a twist of his lips. ‘For a council of war.’
Rafe sat in the great hall, stiff and uncomfortable in a straight-backed chair, the long table in front of the cauldron and Treasures stretching before him. It wasn’t only the chair that made him feel uncomfortable. Calidus unsettled him. Not only his appearance, but something else. There was something terrifying about him, a sense that he could slit your throat at any moment, and smile while he was doing it.
It was dark now, night coming early on Midwinter’s Eve, and torches had been lit, crackling in the cold draught that swirled around the chamber. Jehar warriors guarded them, over two score of them that Rafe could see prowling the torchlit room.
And probably more of them lurking in the shadows.
He shivered, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
Why do they want me here? A huntsman from Ardan at this, a council for war concerning the future of the Banished Lands?
His eyes wandered the room, drawn to the Treasures. Cauldron, axe, spear and cup.
Four of them. Maybe that’s why I’m here – because I found the cup, and have drunk from it.
‘They will attack soon,’ Calidus said, breaking the silence. ‘On the morrow, or the day after.’ He shrugged. ‘Soon.’
Rafe found Calidus hard to look at: much of his scalp was hairless, looking more like a melted candle than a head, and his face was the same, parts of his lip and cheek charred, his beard only growing in scraggly silver tufts.
‘Why would they attack us here?’ Geraint asked. ‘I’ve walked the walls – this fortress is strong. It would take many thousands to breach these walls, and then only if they were poorly defended. And between our swords and your warbands of eagle-guard and Vin Thalun we must be close to seven thousand strong. Only a fool would attack us.’
‘The world’s full of fools,’ Conall observed. ‘Perhaps a few of them are gathered out there.’ He waved a hand.
‘They’re not fools,’ Calidus said. ‘Do not underestimate them. They will attack Nathair and Lothar soon, because the road they are building is only a few days from the plain of Drassil. They will not want Nathair and Lothar’s warbands to unite with us.’
Geraint snorted. ‘Has the world ever seen such a warband? We are undefeatable.’
‘Once before, such a force was gathered,’ Calidus mused, ‘but it’s been a while. Undefeatable? Maybe, when we are together. But separate?’ He shrugged. ‘They know they cannot allow those warbands to enter these gates, so they will seek to stop them, will attack them, on the morrow, or the next day.’
‘And what would you have us do?’ Rhin asked.
‘It will be too good an opportunity to miss,’ Calidus said. ‘They cannot number more than fifteen hundred swords, so they will throw everything they have at Nathair.’
‘Edana’s with them already,’ Conall said casually.
‘What?’ Rhin gasped.
‘It’s true,’ Rafe said. ‘We just saw her, at the edge of the plain, looking up at us.’
‘The bitch,’ Rhin spat. ‘I still cannot comprehend how she dares to chase after me. I’ll squash her, hang her from the highest branch, let the crows feast on—’
‘Enough,’ Calidus said. ‘You’re starting to sound like Legion. And besides, it is in your favour that she has followed you here, bringing the necklace with her. Otherwise you would not be sitting so comfortably . . .’
‘But how did she get here so fast?’ Geraint muttered as Rhin looked away.
‘We are not the only ones that can ride hard, I’m guessing,’ Conall said.
‘It makes little difference,’ Calidus said. ‘Unless she has brought four or five thousand swords with her.’ He looked questioningly at Rhin and the others.
‘Not possible,’ Rafe said. He thought about it a little. ‘Maybe fifteen hundred, two thousand at most, definitely no more than that.’
‘So, our enemy could number at worst three and a half thousand.’ Calidus tugged at the wisps of beard on his chin. ‘That could be a danger to Nathair and Lothar.’
‘Surely not,’ Geraint said.
‘Our enemy are well practised in fighting in that forest. And they are no rabble. Do not underestimate them.’ Calidus flicked some skin from his fingertips and frowned. ‘Well, then, the plan must remain the same. When our enemy assaults Nathair and Lothar we shall ride out and attack their rear. We will crush them, Nathair the anvil, and us the hammer.’
‘In the forest?’ Rafe asked, not liking the thought of that. He remembered the last forest battle that he’d been involved in.
‘No, not in the forest. When Nathair and Lothar push through to the plain around Drassil,’ Calidus said.
If they get that far, Rafe thought.
‘Will you lead the attack, Lord Calidus?’ Geraint questioned.
‘I will not be leaving Drassil,’ Calidus said, ‘and I will keep much of my warband around me. Around the Treasures.’
Geraint frowned. ‘Would the best plan not be to lead out the full might gathered here and crush our enemy? A decisive strike that would be overwhelming and make victory inevitable.’
‘And leave the Treasures unguarded?’ Calidus hissed, staring at Geraint as if he had lost his wits.
‘Not unguarded,’ Geraint said, ‘but surely the walls of Drassil and a few hundred swords would be enough to—’
‘No,’ Calidus snarled. ‘The Treasures are all. They must be protected.’
‘Let my warband lead the attack,’ Rhin said eagerly.
‘You have been a faithful ally, though you have failed me,’ Calidus said, tapping a finger against his chin. ‘And a charge of horse may be the best way to fall upon our enemies’ backs.’ He smiled at her. ‘If you wish for that honour, then I will not deny you.’
‘My thanks,’ Rhin said. ‘Conall, you shall lead my vanguard.’
Conall looked at her, then raised his cup. ‘You do me a great honour, my Queen.’
What she meant to say, Rafe thought, is that you will die first, Conall. You may win glory on the battlefield, but I imagine you’ll also be dying on it. Rhin does not forget a betrayal.
‘Geraint, Conall, I thank you for your counsel and your service,’ Calidus said. ‘If you would go now and ready your men for battle.’
The two men looked at Calidus a moment, slowly realizing Calidus was dismissing them. They looked to Rhin.
Rhin nodded curtly at her two battlechiefs and they rose and left. When she was sure they had gone Rhin leaned over to Rafe and whispered in his ear.
He listened intently, then nodded.
New tasks to complete, and a chance to redeem myself in Rhin’s favours.
‘So,’ Calidus said, looking from Rhin to Uthas, ‘you have both done well, have earned great rewards. We stand on the brink, now, so close.’
‘It will be a great step, defeating the Bright Star and all those who oppose us in one decisive battle,’ Rhin said.
‘Aye,’ Uthas agreed. ‘Balur and Ethlinn, as well.’
‘Yes,’ Calidus said. ‘But that is not all that will happen on the morrow.’
He leaned conspiratorially forwards, his face in darkness.
‘Asroth will become flesh,’ he whispered.
Rafe felt shivers dance down his spine.
‘But we only have four of the Treasures,’ Rhin said. ‘What of the necklace, torc and the dagger?’
‘Edana has the necklace, and she is out there. You have only to take it from her,’ Calidus said, a threat in his voice. ‘Redeem your past failures.’
‘I will,’ Rhin said. ‘But that still leaves the torc and dagger . . .’
Calidus clapped his hands, and three figures appeared from the shadows – two Jehar, either side of an older man, black-haired with streaks of grey. He looked exhausted, eyes black hollows, and his clothes were sweat-stained and tattered; blood crusted on dozens of wounds, a short sword hung at his hip. Even so he walked towards them with a confidence and charisma that Rafe had seen in very few men, a controlled anger in his eyes and the hawk-like twitch of his head. A heavy oversized torc of black iron hung around his neck. It seemed to weigh him down.
‘All of you, may I introduce my oldest ally in these Banished Lands: Lykos, Lord of the Vin Thalun.’
Lykos threw himself into a chair, poured himself a drink of something dark and leaned back, one boot up on the table. He drank deeply, wiped his mouth, and then took the torc from around his neck and threw it disdainfully onto the table. It rolled in a circle, all eyes upon it, thudded to a stop.
‘You have no idea what I’ve been through to bring you this,’ Lykos said, then poured himself another cup.
Calidus laughed, long and loud, a maniacal edge to it.
‘And what of the starstone dagger?’ Uthas asked. ‘Do the Jotun not have it?’
‘The Jotun? They did have the starstone dagger,’ Calidus said, sipping from his own cup of wine. ‘But no longer. Asroth is not idle in the Otherworld. He has captured a prisoner.’ He smiled, a gloating, satisfied thing. ‘Now Corban, the so-called Bright Star, has the starstone dagger, and on the morrow I shall take it from his mangled corpse.’
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
CORBAN
Corban was in a grey world, standing in an empty corridor, somehow knowing that he was deep underground, with the weight of a mountain above his head. He looked both ways, saw no one, and for some reason felt compelled to walk down the corridor.
Doors were set along both walls, thick oak doors with iron-barred view holes. Corban peered through every door, seeing the small chambers within. They were all empty, until he came to the last one.
A figure, its back to him. Dark-haired, tall. Great wings of white feather furled across its back. It must have heard Corban because it turned, a tear-stained face stared at him, a thick cord of cloth tied around its mouth, gagging it.
It was Meical.
‘How? Who has done this to you?’ Corban asked.
Meical took a step towards him, but a thick chain rattled on the floor and Corban saw that a manacle was shackled to Meical’s ankle, the chain bound to a great pin that was sunk into the stone floor.
Meical stared at him with grief-filled eyes.
Corban woke to the grey of dawn.
What was that? Meical, imprisoned? Has he been captured by Asroth and the Kadoshim? Shadows were all around, Coralen’s body curled against him. He shifted and her eyes opened, a long sigh. Corban stroked her cheek. He remembered what today was.
I cannot do anything about Meical now.
‘It’s time,’ he said.
In silence they rose, crouched by the stream they’d slept beside and washed in, banishing the last remnants of sleep. The day was cold, the water icy, making Corban gasp. They dressed for war, still in silence, helping each other, tightening buckles and straps. Corban tugged on his boots, then pulled his mail shirt on over a thick woollen undershirt. It was heavy but felt good, a fine fit. He shifted his shoulders, letting it settle. Coralen lifted a leather surcoat over his head, a four-pointed star on its chest.
Nothing to do with any false prophecies. I choose to stand against Asroth, against Calidus and Nathair. If that makes me the Bright Star, then so be it – I choose to be the Bright Star.
He helped Coralen put on her own mail shirt, taken from a dead eagle-guard that had no more need of it, and then cinched tight the straps and buckles of her leather jerkin. Sword-belts were buckled, two swords on Corban’s, a sword and three knives on Coralen’s. And their wolven claws, tied with a thong to their belts, for now. Coralen adjusted Corban’s wolf’s-head torc, and his arm-ring of silver.
Corban took Coralen’s hand, looked into her eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but she put two fingers upon his lips.
‘No words can say what I feel,’ she whispered.
‘Only this, then,’ Corban said. ‘I love you.’
‘I know.’ She grinned, and kissed him.
Corban heard footsteps, the darkness was lifting now, everything a shade of grey. He knew the steps were Gar’s before he saw him. His old friend was dressed for war, a shirt of dark mail, hair tied back tight to the nape of his head, sword hilt jutting over one shoulder, his father’s axe at his belt. He just looked Corban up and down and nodded. Then the others began to arrive. Brina and Cywen together, then Farrell, grim-faced, hair and beard bound with warrior braids, war-hammer rearing over one shoulder, longsword at his hip. Finally Dath and Kulla.
‘Where’s Laith?’ Dath asked Farrell.
‘Still asleep. Snoring, truth be told, though don’t tell her I said that,’ Farrell said with a shrug. ‘She’s not one for mornings. She’ll be along after.’
‘Long as she doesn’t miss all of the excitement.’
‘Not likely,’ Farrell said. ‘I don’t think this one will be over by highsun.’
That’s for sure.
‘You could have waited for her,’ Corban said.
‘Ban, I’m your shieldman. Of all days, she’ll know where to find me today. By your side. Wherever you are, that’s where I’ll be. Guarding your back.’
Corban smiled at his old friend, went to say something but found there was a lump in his throat that wouldn’t allow any words out.
A flapping of wings announced Craf’s arrival. He alighted on Brina’s shoulder.
‘News,’ he squawked.
‘Go on, then,’ Brina said, scratching the bird’s neck.
‘Starstone torc in Drassil.’
A flurry of questions, Brina cutting over them.
‘You’re sure?’ she asked.
‘Yes, sure,’ Craf croaked. ‘Saw it, with axe, spear, cup and cauldron.’
A long silence followed as the weight of that knowledge settled into Corban and his companions.
‘This is it, then,’ Dath said. Corban could hear the tension in his voice, felt it in his own chest – a stirring of fear, excitement, anger, back to fear. Kulla squeezed Dath’s hand.
‘Aye,’ Farrell agreed.
‘It is,’ Corban breathed out.
They stood in a circle, hands slipping into hands, and just looked at each other, smiles creasing faces, tears rolling down cheeks. It lasted a long, timeless moment.
‘One way or another, now, this war will be over by tonight,’ Corban said.
They all knew what that meant. Victorious and alive. Defeated and dead.
‘I’m scared,’ Corban said into the silence.
‘I’m scared, too,’ Gar said. Murmurs of agreement rippled amongst them.
‘But all feel fear, both the coward and the hero, and all those in between,’ Farrell said.
‘Aye. It’s what we do about it that counts,’ Dath muttered.
‘And what are we going to do about it?’ Coralen asked, though Corban already knew the answer.
‘We’re going to fight,’ he said.
A stillness as they squeezed each other’s hands and found their courage in that silent place.
‘We all ready, then?’ Brina asked.
‘Not quite,’ Corban said. ‘Storm,’ he called, and the wolven emerged from the gloom. ‘Time for you to get dressed.’
