‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ Ennius said, still staring furiously into the fire.
Have to do better than that, Clarin reflected. But he hadn’t sounded quite so cross. Was he getting closer? If not Madria, then who?
‘Elana?’ he offered.
Ennius stopped staring at the fire and turned to look at Clarin. Deep brown eyes stared at him, suddenly magnetic in their intensity.
‘Not quite correct, unfortunately,’ Ennius murmured, his voice quite different now—hushed, expectant.
Clarin felt angry with frustration. What kind of test was this? If Madria was close, and Elana closer, then who?
Elana was the priestess of Madria. Belwynn was her disciple. But why would Belwynn be correct if Elana wasn’t? He almost said her name, then stopped. Don’t be stupid, Clarin, he told himself. His infatuation with her was muddling his thinking.
‘Go on,’ said Ennius, in the same voice.
I don’t have a name, old man! He wanted to shout. Oh, sod it.
‘Belwynn.’
‘Yes,’ Ennius said simply.
‘What?’ blurted out Aulus and Zared in unison.
‘That is the correct answer,’ Ennius said simply. ‘The Shield must be passed into this man’s keeping.’
‘How do you know Belwynn?’ Clarin demanded.
‘I don’t, you great Magnian muttonhead! Aulus, will you fetch it?’
‘I don’t know where the Shield is kept, remember Ennius?’
‘Oh yes. I forget myself. It’s just next door.’
‘What?’ asked Zared.
‘It’s kept in the house next door,’ Ennius repeated. ‘It’s easier that way.’
The Persaleian Shield was circular, covered in leather that had been painted red, black and yellow. In the middle the head of a bearded man had been painted, with two horns emerging from his forehead.
‘Ludovis,’ Ennius explained when he saw Clarin looking at it.
The sight of the shield had a profound impact on Clarin, while the touch of it caused a shiver to run through the tips of his fingers to the rest of his body. It was clear to him that this was much more than an ordinary shield, yet if he had been asked to explain why, he couldn’t have put the feeling into words.
They all knew there wasn’t time to waste. Reluctantly, Clarin wrapped the shield in sackcloth and strapped it to his back.
‘Farewell Ennius,’ he said, still without understanding what had happened in the old man’s house.
‘Use it well.’
Aulus led them back to the Temple, where the group was still waiting for them.
Zared nodded curtly to Duilio and the rest of his men. Their eyes widened, but they controlled their reactions. They all knew that their mission was only half complete until they had safely left the city with the weapon.
‘Thank you, Aulus,’ said Zared, shaking the flamen’s hand.
‘I pray that what we did today takes you a step closer to liberating our country,’ Aulus said. ‘Good luck.’
With that they left the Temple of Ludovis behind. Clarin gave the Central Square of Baserno one last look. The Shield of Persala had been resting here long enough. It was time to use it.
Elana’s death had wounded them all. It had never been spoken out loud, but Gyrmund was sure they had all shared a sense that they were doing this for her, collecting the weapons for Madria’s champion. Now she was dead, struck down by some hellish creature that had taken Sebastian’s form. Gyrmund found it hard to take. He had seen a touch of innocence to Elana. A gentle goodness that had been unique to her.
But if Gyrmund was struggling with his grief, the reaction of the other two was more severe. At least Soren knew that Belwynn was alive and safe. But this didn’t seem to soften him. He wore a hard face now. It reminded Gyrmund of the Soren who had appeared in Edeleny, grabbing the Grand Caladri elder Agoston, taking his magic in order to restore his own powers, before discarding his husk of a body. And Moneva, who had only just come out of her shell, only just begun to start smiling again, was even worse. She barely spoke to anyone, a look of murderous intent fixed on her face.
The morning after Gansukh’s fourth fight three Jalakh warriors were found dead. Their throats had been slit in the night. Angry recriminations followed, the Oligud tribe accused.
But Gyrmund knew it was Moneva.
A challenger still appeared on the fifth day to fight Gansukh. It had been a close contest for a while, Gansukh having to fight with an injured arm. But after five minutes one of the Jalakhs in the crowd started screaming, before a sudden haemorrhage left him sprawled on the ground, blood shooting out from his nose and mouth as if his head had exploded. Soren, face grim, had bent the rules, targeting a Jalakh wizard rather than the fighter in the ropes. The chaos completely distracted the other tribes, while Soren and Bolormaa turned all their power on the fight. Gansukh’s opponent could barely move, held in a web of magic, before Gansukh slew him with a strike to the head.
The Oligud warrior was livid, railing at his mother and Soren, demanding that she send the three foreigners away. But that was the last thing Bolormaa was going to do.
The sixth day began with two more murdered warriors. Gansukh entered the ropes, but there were no challengers.
On the seventh and last day, the Day of Destiny, Gansukh again entered the ropes unchallenged. A sea of Jalakh people, sullen faced, cowed, all bended the knee.
They had a new khan.
‘They can’t come in,’ said Gansukh, gesturing angrily at Gyrmund, Moneva and Soren.
The new khan was already asserting his authority. But his mother wasn’t so easily put off.
‘They got you here,’ she whispered to him fiercely. ‘When they’ve gone you can forget that, take all the credit for yourself. All the Jalakhs will forget it. But while they’re here, no-one will forget. So I suggest you give them what they want soon, then let them go.’
Gansukh’s face curled into a snarl. He looked at Gyrmund and the others, but what he saw was Soren, the implacable wizard who had given him his victories in the ropes, and Moneva, a killer who worked in the shadows, and he seemed to think better of resisting them. He screwed his face up, thinking.
‘Just him,’ he said, pointing at Gyrmund.
Gyrmund looked at Moneva and Soren, raising his eyebrows.
They shrugged their acceptance and Gyrmund stepped forwards.
Gansukh, content that he had been obeyed, turned around and walked through the gate in the outer wall of the Temple.
A small group followed behind. As well as Bolormaa and Gyrmund there were a few other notables of the Oligud tribe, and a few of Gansukh’s friends, men who would now perhaps become his generals.
A trio of priests met Gansukh as he entered the Temple grounds. He bowed his head, and they each placed a wreath of flowers around his neck, before leading him on.
Ahead was the entrance to the pagoda, which Moneva had described to Gyrmund, though this was the first time he saw it for himself. A small set of steps led up to the entrance, while four pillars supported a roof that extended out towards them.
Bolormaa saw him looking at the pagoda and fell in with him.
‘Gansukh will spend the night in there,’ she explained, as the three priests led them past the entrance. ‘Our rituals say he will enter as an Oligud and awake tomorrow as a member of all the tribes—as a khan.’
She spoke with pride and reverence.
‘Your husband would be proud,’ said Gyrmund.
‘He is.’
The group left the pagoda behind and joined a path that wound its way into the sacred garden. The priests stopped when they faced a giant tree that stood in the centre of the garden. They all stood facing the tree in a semi-circle, before one of the priests produced a saw and handed it to Gansukh. He approached the tree, studying it for a while.
‘This one?’ he said, pointing at a huge branch that grew out in the direction of the Jalakh tents. Gyrmund smiled as he saw that it pointed directly at the locat
ion where Moneva had climbed over the outside wall, in a failed attempt to find the bow.
‘A wise choice, great khan,’ said the priest.
Gansukh set to work, making a notch cut first, then cutting into the branch slightly further along, pushing back and forth with his saw. It was as thick as some trees, and it took him a while to cut through, as the rest of them just stood and watched. He grew red-faced and sweaty, and had to stop to rest more than once. But he cut through the last section cleanly, the branch dropping to the floor.
The three priests gathered around the fallen branch.
‘See!’ one proclaimed. ‘The Tree of Destiny has provided us with the Jalakh Bow!’
‘What?’ said Gyrmund, turning to Bolormaa in shock.
‘The priests will now use this branch to make the Jalakh Bow. Gansukh will hunt antelope, and the horn and sinew of the beast he kills will be used in the construction.’
Gyrmund found this difficult to process. ‘So, wait? The Jalakh Bow doesn’t exist? You said it was here, in Tosongat,’ he said accusingly.
‘I said it was here in a manner of speaking. The Jalakh Bow is made by order of the khan. Legends say that the Tree of Destiny grew when the original bow was planted into the ground. Or maybe the original bow was also made from this very tree. Come, Gyrmund,’ she tutted, that sly smile of hers reappearing. ‘You didn’t think the original Jalakh bow, made from wood hundreds and hundreds of years ago, would still be in existence?’
Gyrmund didn’t know what to say.
‘But don’t think we are giving you an ordinary bow. The Jalakh Bow is made from the Tree of Destiny, using methods preserved by our shamen. It will be the finest weapon in all of Dalriya.’
‘How long does it take them to make it?’ he asked.
‘Not long. But it must be allowed to properly dry. You will be able to use it in days.’
Gansukh approached him, along with his councillors and friends from the Oligud tribe.
‘You will take care of our bow?’ he asked Gyrmund.
‘Of course, Your Majesty. It is an honour to receive it.’
Gansukh nodded. ‘My first act as khan is to give away our most precious weapon. But my mother insists that we share the same enemies, so it will still be used for the Jalakh people.’
‘I will use it wisely and I promise to return it to you when it is no longer needed.’
‘So be it,’ said Gansukh, waving a hand in the air as if to be rid of the whole business.
Gansukh, his mother and the rest of the Oliguds left the way they had come.
It took all three priests to carry the branch away. They were presumably going to start work on it immediately.
Gyrmund was left alone in the garden. He looked up at the tree, at the cut where the giant branch had been. He approached, placing one hand onto the trunk.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Beyond the Drang
XIX
IT HAD TAKEN TIME TO GATHER their wits after the dragon attack. Rabigar had been relieved to learn that the Krykker losses had been a few hundred. He had feared they were much worse.
The dragon had fired the Vismarian fleet, and the Caladri trading vessels, but most people had already made it onto shore. They had run into the swamps and hills of the Pecineg clan. The dragon had not pursued them, flying away over the ocean.
The Sea Caladri had not been so fortunate. Only four Caladri warships limped back to the shore of the Halvian Krykkers. They spoke of a sea battle where they had gained the upper hand over the Kharovians, until the dragon had turned the outcome of the battle, destroying ship after ship, until the Caladri that remained broke away in an effort to escape. They confirmed what Rabigar had already suspected. Captain Sebo’s Red Serpent had been in the thick of the fighting and had gone down. They held out little hope that many more than a few other ships had escaped the destruction. The Sea Caladri fleet, the greatest in Dalriya, was no more.
They hadn’t dallied. Rabigar couldn’t blame them. Picking up those of their race who had crossed the Lantinen, they departed south, to deliver their devastating news to their countrymen. The Krykkers were now stranded, the ships of the Sea Caladri and the Vismarians all lost in one day. More than one Krykker could be heard lamenting over their chances of ever returning home. But Rabigar had other priorities. He was here to find the Giants’ Spear, and that was his only concern right now.
His hopes, it seemed, lay in the form of Gunnhild, the Vismarian woman who had saved his life. She had lifted his sinking body from the seabed and deposited it onto the sand.
The Vismarian leader, Sevald, explained that he had led a small party north in the hopes of finding a family who had knowledge of the paths into the wild lands of western Halvia. He had returned with Gunnhild. She had agreed to take Rabigar into the west. But there was a catch. The area they needed to reach was swarming with Drobax.
So it was that Rabigar left the land of the Pecinegs with an army. It contained about two thousand souls altogether. Chief Wracken of the Binideqs led his soldiers, who would guide them through their clan-lands to the River Drang, that marked the northern border of the Krykkers. Jodivig, chief of the Dramsens, had recruited a force of Dalriyan Krykkers that matched the numbers under Wracken. Sevald came with his Vismarians, men and women who knew the lands north of the Drang. Finally, Ignac of the Grand Caladri led a small group of his exiles. Some of them, like him, were mediums. Their magic might prove useful once they entered the dangerous lands to the north.
As they followed Wracken’s force north, Rabigar fell in with Sevald and Gunnhild. The woman’s stride was huge, meaning she had to walk in an odd sort of dawdle to travel at the same pace as Rabigar.
‘Where did your family live?’ he asked her.
‘We hunted in the far north, where the cold turns your snot to ice and freezes your eyes shut in the night. Our size allowed us to survive up there, where tiny men like this would shiver and cry,’ she said, giving Sevald an almighty slap on the back. He smiled good naturedly at the ribbing.
‘We would hunt all manner of beasts, living off elk and bringing back bear and wolf pelts to trade with the lowlanders. What a life it was.’
‘What happened?’
‘The Drobax came. So we started hunting those bastards instead. But we must have upset someone, because they came for us. And I don’t mean like Drobax usually do, running around aimlessly like squirrels looking for their acorns. This was an ambush—well planned. I saw my father go down. My brothers escaped to the north, but I got cut off from them. I pray they got away, that they’re hiding in the icy wastes, somewhere too cold for the Drobax to follow. Anyway, I was chased miles to the south. That’s where Sevald found me, talking some nonsense about giants and spears.’
‘What do you know about the giants?’ Rabigar asked.
‘Oh, plenty of stories about the giants in my family. Stories that we’re descended from a giant. The truth is they left for the west. A long, long time ago.’
‘How do we find them? Or find where they went?’
‘Farther west of where the Vismarians and Krykkers live there are miles and miles of ice fields. Not much lives out there. If you tried walking that way you would fall through the ice, sooner or later. Even if you’re a lucky bastard, and all the odds are in your favour, it will still only take a few days before the ice gets you. The only way to travel west is down the Nasvarl. The source of the Nasvarl is in the northern wastes. But they say it flows west, all the way to the edge of the world. If we head northwest from here we will reach a good spot in the river that thaws early. From there we can head downriver.’
Rabigar heard the Drang before he saw it. Chief Wracken had chosen to reach the river at sundown, when their activity was less likely to be noticed by any Drobax in the area. Rabigar looked out from the southern bank and saw the Drang was wide and full, bringing huge quantities of meltwater from the highlands of Halvia to the Lantinen Sea. A strange looking apparatus had been built in the river.
> Chief Wracken sent twenty or so of his soldiers towards it and then, noticing Rabigar’s interest, approached him to explain.
‘We’ve destroyed all the other bridges across the river. So far, it’s kept the Drobax from crossing in significant numbers. This is now the only way for us to go beyond the Drang.’
As Rabigar watched, the Krykkers on the bank began to lower a drawbridge-like contraption onto a small, artificial looking island that lay about a quarter of the way into the river. Once lowered, they crossed the drawbridge onto the island, where a second drawbridge was lowered onto a larger, natural island that lay in the middle of the river. It was big enough for a few wooden buildings to have been erected on it. Rabigar could see that two further drawbridges would complete the route and allow them to reach the north side.
‘Ingenious,’ he said, enthused. ‘It allows you to cross but denies passage to the Drobax.’
‘Yes. I will leave a few men on the south bank and on the middle island for when we return, just in case we need to make a quick crossing.’
Wracken ordered his soldiers to cross first, securing a bridgehead, before the rest of the army followed behind.
Despite the late hour, they had attracted the attention of a small number of Drobax. By the time Rabigar got across, the brief encounter was over, a pile of Drobax bodies casually dumped next to where the latrines had been marked out. But it didn’t bode well.
They were quick to make a camp. Each of them carried a sharpened wooden stake that were used to build a defensive perimeter around the camp. Wracken insisted that the Binideqs would handle the night watch, and so Rabigar settled down to eat his rations with the Dalriyan Krykkers. He was surprised to see a familiar figure come over to join him.
‘Stenk? I had no idea you were here!’
‘Jodivig asked me to come,’ Stenk said proudly.
The truth was, Rabigar was surprised to see the young Dramsen Krykker. Stenk had fought in his very first battle with Rabigar last summer, against the Isharite army in Haskany. But, Rabigar supposed, that now made him a veteran. When you factored in the many losses suffered by the Krykkers, and accounted for the fact that Maragin had kept many of the best warriors with her in the underground tunnels of the Krykker mountains, that made Stenk one of the more experienced fighters they had left to call on.
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