by John Gwynne
Close to the top of the incline Ulfilas reined in his horse and looked back.
A column of warriors wound up the slope behind him, surrounding a wain pulled by two hulking auroch. Beyond them the land stretched grey and desolate, further south the fringes of Forn Forest were a green blur. A river in the distance sparkled under the dipping sun, marking the border of this northern wasteland with the realm beyond.
Isiltir. Home. Ulfilas looked away, back up the slope towards his King, and spurred his horse after him.
They travelled ever northwards as the sun sank lower, shadows stretching about them, their path winding through empty plains and steep-sided ravines. Once they crossed a stone bridge that spanned a deep abyss; Ulfilas looked down into the darkness. His stomach shifted as his horse stumbled on loose stone, the thought of falling into the unknown making him snatch at his reins. He let out a long breath when they reached the far side, the sharp rush of fear receding as quickly as it had appeared.
They rode into a series of barren foothills, eventually cresting another slope to find Dag silently waiting for them. Ulfilas and his King drew level with the huntsman and pulled their mounts to a standstill at the sight before them.
A flat plain unfolded into the distance, the tips of mountains jagged on the horizon. Just below the travellers lay their destination: a great crater, as if Elyon the Maker had punched a fist into the fabric of the earth, barren of life and no breeze or sound of wildlife to disturb it.
‘The starstone crater,’ Jael whispered.
Ulfilas had thought it more tale than truth, the rumoured site of the starstone that had fallen from the sky.
How many thousands of years ago was it supposed to have crashed to the earth? And from it the Seven Treasures were said to have been forged, over which past wars had changed the face of the Banished Lands, not least of all here, where the stories told how Elyon’s Scourging had broken the land, scorching it black.
Ulfilas stared up at the sky, slate-grey and swollen with clouds, and imagined for a moment that they were filled with the white-feathered Ben-Elim and Asroth’s demon horde. He could almost hear their battle-cries echoing about him, hear the clash of weapons, the death-screams.
Elyon and Asroth, Maker and Destroyer, their angels and demons fighting for supremacy over these Banished Lands. I thought it all a faery tale. And now I am told it is happening again.
Riding through these lands now Ulfilas found himself believing what, only a year ago, he had thought to be bedtime stories for bairns. He thought of the time he had spent at Haldis, the burial ground of the Hunen giants hidden deep in Forn Forest. He had witnessed a king betrayed and slain over a black axe said to be one of the Seven Treasures carved from the starstone; he had seen white wyrms, and earth magic where solid ground turned into a swamp, suffocating the life from his sword-brothers. He was a man of action – of deeds. Monsters made real were not something he’d found easy to accept. Fear churned in his gut at just the memory of it.
Fear keeps you sharp.
Further down the slope and built on the lip of the crater was the carcass of an ancient fortress, walls and towers broken and crumbling. Figures moved amongst the ruins, mere pinpricks in the distance.
‘The Jotun,’ said Jael.
The giants of the north. Rumoured to be strongest and fiercest of the surviving giant clans. Not for the first time Ulfilas questioned the wisdom of this journey.
‘No sudden movements,’ Dag said, ‘and keep your wits about you.’
Some of the Jotun’s number filtered out of the ruins, gathering on the road that cut through the derelict walls, their spear-tips and mail catching the sinking sun. A handful were mounted on shaggy, lumbering creatures.
‘Are they riding bears?’ Ulfilas asked.
‘We’ve all heard the tales of the Jotun in the north,’ Jael said. ‘It would appear some of those tales, at least, are true.’
They stopped at the first remains of a wall, the column of riders behind them rippling to a halt. Warriors spread from the path, curling about Jael like a protective hand. Ten score of Jael’s best shieldmen. Ulfilas could feel the tension amongst them, saw the way hands gripped spear shafts and sword hilts.
Giants appeared from the ruins, moving with surprising grace despite their bulk. Some sat on the path ahead of them upon the backs of dark-furred and yellow-clawed bears. Ulfilas knew Jael was right to be wary, they’d seen first-hand at the Battle of Haldis how deadly an attacking force of giants could be. If it hadn’t been for the men of Tenebral forming their wall of shields and stopping the Hunen giants’ attack that had been tearing the warbands of Isiltir and Helveth apart, then Ulfilas knew none of them would be here today.
Too late to learn the shield wall now, but I swear, if I make it home . . .
One of the bear-riders moved ahead of the others, a tremor passing through the ground with the bear’s every footfall. It halted before Jael, looming over him.
The giant slid from a tall-backed saddle and strode forward, blond hair and moustache bound in thick braids. A cloak of dark fur wrapped his wide frame, the glint of iron beneath it. In his hand he held a thick-shafted spear, a war-hammer was left strapped to his saddle. His bear watched them with small, intelligent eyes. It curled a lip, showing a line of sharp teeth.
‘Welcome to the Desolation, Jael, King of Isiltir,’ the giant said. His voice sounded like gravel sliding over stone.
‘Greetings, Ildaer, warlord of the Jotun,’ Jael replied. He beckoned behind him, his warriors parted to allow the wain forward. One of the shaggy auroch that pulled it snorted and dug at the ground with a hoof.
It doesn’t like the smell of bear any more than I do.
Jael pulled back a cloth that covered the wain’s contents. ‘It is as my envoys promised you. A tribute. Weapons of your ancestors, hoarded at Dun Kellen,’ he said, reaching in and with difficulty pulling out a huge battle-axe. ‘My gift to you.’
Ildaer gestured and another giant moved to the wain, a broad-sword slung across his back. He stood as tall as Jael did upon his horse. The giant took the axe, turning it in his hands, then peered into the wain. He could not hide the look of joy that swept his face.
‘They are the weapons of our kin,’ he said with a nod to Ildaer.
‘I return them to you, as a token of my goodwill, and part payment of a task that I need your aid in.’
The giant gripped the aurochs’ harness and led them forward, Ildaer peering in as the wain passed him. Giants pressed close about it.
‘And what is to stop me from killing you and your men, and giving your carcasses to my bears?’
‘I am of more value to you alive. You are a man of intellect, I have been told. Not a savage.’
Ildaer looked at Jael, his eyes narrowing beneath his jutting brow. He glanced back over his shoulder at the wain full of weapons.
‘And besides, who is to say that we would not kill you and all of your warband?’ Jael said.
The giants behind Ildaer all glowered at Jael.
A bear growled.
Ulfilas felt the familiar spike of fear – the precursor to sudden violence. His fingers twitched upon his sword hilt.
‘Hah,’ Ildaer laughed. ‘I think I like you, southlander.’
Ulfilas felt the moment pass, the tension ebbing. Southlander? Isiltir is not one of the southlands. But then, we are in the northlands now. They call anything south of here the southlands.
Ildaer looked back at the wain again. ‘That is of great worth to my people,’ he admitted.
‘It is nothing compared to what I am prepared to give, if you can help me.’ Jael told him.
‘What is it that you want?’
‘I want you to find a runaway boy for me.’
CHAPTER TWO
CORBAN
Corban woke with his heart pounding. The remnants of a dream, dispersed with wakefulness, just a hint of black eyes and immeasurable hatred remaining for a moment. Then that too was gone.
It wa
s cold darkness all around.
He heard Storm growl and he sat up, one hand feeling for his sword hilt. Something’s wrong.
He felt Storm’s bulk beside him, reached out and felt her hackles standing rigid.
‘What is it, girl?’ he whispered.
The camp was silent. To his left the fire-pit glimmered, but he avoided looking at it, knowing it would destroy any night vision he possessed. He made out the dense shadow of a guard standing on the incline of the dell they were camped within. The moon emerged, revealing another figure close by, tall and dark-haired. Meical. He was standing perfectly still, his attention fixed on the dell’s rim. Behind Corban a horse whinnied.
There was a flapping up above and then a croaking bird’s screech. ‘WAKE, WARE THE ENEMY, WAKE. WAKE. WAKE.’
Craf or Fech. Corban leaped to his feet, all around him other shapes doing the same, the rasp of swords pulled from scabbards. Shapes appeared at the dell’s edge, figures outlined for a moment in the moon’s glow before they swarmed down the incline. There was a crunch, a collision, a scream.
‘Kadoshim,’ Meical shouted, then all was chaos. Bodies were swirling, solid shadows blurred with starlight, then an explosion of sparks burst from the fire as it blazed brightly, scattering light. Corban caught a glimpse of Brina calling out incantations beside the fire, making it burn higher and directing tongues of it towards their enemy.
The new light revealed a dozen attackers amongst them, dressed like the Jehar but moving differently, with none of their fluid grace, as if their bodies held too much power to contain within the confines of flesh and bone. They carved their way through the camp, sending those that attacked them hurtling away. Corban remembered how the Kadoshim had fought in Murias, just after they’d been raised from the cauldron, tearing limbs from bodies with a savage, inhuman ferocity. A wave of fear suddenly swept him, pinning his feet to the ground. He heard a strange language screamed in defiance and looked to see Balur One-Eye the giant, his kin gathered behind him, hurling defiance at the Kadoshim, who paused for a moment, then surged towards Balur.
They have come for the axe.
As he watched them charge together, Corban remembered his mam, their attack on her, how he had tried to stop the blood flowing as he’d held her, how the light had dimmed from her eyes. Hatred for these creatures swept him, burning away the fear that had frozen him moments before, and then he was moving forwards, running faster with each step, Storm at his side.
They saw him before he reached them, or perhaps it was Storm that marked him out. Either way, the Kadoshim obviously recognized him, and who he was supposed to be: the Seren Disglair – Bright Star and Elyon’s avatar made flesh. Some of them broke from the main bulk that was now locked in combat with Balur and his giant kin. Tukul and his Jehar swirled around their edges, slicing, cutting.
Storm lengthened her stride and forged ahead of him. Corban glimpsed the muscles in her legs bunching as she gathered to leap, then she was airborne, colliding with one of the Kadoshim in a mass of fur and flesh, her jaws tearing at its throat.
Instinct took Corban as he reached them; gripping his sword two-handed he raised it high, slashing diagonally, shifting his weight to sweep around his target. He felt his sword bite through leather and mail, shattering bone and carving through flesh. It should have been a killing blow. The Kadoshim staggered, one hand gripping Corban’s blade. It stared at him, black eyes boring into him, then it grinned, blood as dark as ink welling from its mouth. These were no longer the human Jehar whose bodies they’d possessed upon emerging from the cauldron, but something far stronger.
Corban yanked his sword away, saw severed fingers fall as the Kadoshim tried to keep its grip. Its other hand shot out, grabbing Corban around the throat, lifting him from the ground. Impossibly strong fingers began to squeeze. He kicked his legs, tried to bring his sword round, but could put no strength in his blows. Stars appeared at the edges of his vision, a darkness drawing in. The pounding of his heart grew in volume, drowning all else out. Panic swept him and he found new strength, bringing the wolven hilt of his sword down on the Kadoshim’s head. He felt the skull crack, but still it gripped him.
It regarded Corban calmly, head cocked to one side.
‘So you are Meical’s puppet,’ it growled, startling Corban. Its voice was unsteady, a basal rumble that seemed too deep for the throat it issued from.
Corban tried to raise his sword, but it was suddenly so heavy. Too heavy. It slipped from his fingers. The strength was fading from his limbs, leaking from him, a great lethargy seeping through him.
So much for everyone’s hopes of me being the Bright Star. Is this what dying feels like? At least I’ll get to see Mam again.
There was an impact, a crunch that he felt shudder through his body and he saw sharp teeth sink into the Kadoshim’s neck and shoulder.
Storm, he realized, distantly.
The Kadoshim was spun around as Storm tried to drag it off Corban, but it would not release its grip on Corban’s throat. Then there was another impact – this one accompanied by what sounded like wet wood being split as an axe-blade hacked through the Kadoshim’s wrist, severing it completely.
Corban crashed to the ground, his weak legs folding beneath him. He looked up to see Tukul wrestling with the Kadoshim, Storm tearing at the creature’s leg. Then someone else was there, sword a blur, and the Kadoshim’s head was spiralling through the air.
Its body sank to the ground, feet drumming on the turf as a black vapour in the shape of great wings poured from it, eyes like glowing coals regarding them with insatiable malice for a moment before a breeze tugged it apart. A wail of anguish lingered in the air.
Gar stood over Corban, reaching to pull him upright.
‘You have to take their heads,’ Gar said.
‘I remember now,’ Corban croaked.
‘Remember earlier next time.’
Corban nodded, massaging his throat. He touched his warrior torc, felt a bend in the metal.
This must have stopped it from crushing my throat.
The battle was all but done. The grey of first dawn had crept over them as they fought, and by it Corban saw a handful of giants pinning the last Kadoshim to the ground, Balur standing over the creature. His axe swung and then the mist-figure was forming in the air, screeching its rage as it departed the world of flesh.
There was the silent, relief-filled moment that comes at the end of battle. Corban paused, just glad to still be alive, the fear and tension of combat draining from him. He could see it in those around him, the shift and relaxing of muscle in bodies, a change on their faces, a gratitude shared. Then they were moving again.
As dawn rose they gathered their dead, laying them out along the stream bank next to the cairn they’d finished building just yesterday. Corban stood and stared at the pile of rocks they’d dragged from the stream.
My mam is in there, beneath those rocks.
A tear rolled down Corban’s cheek as grief and exhaustion welled in his belly, swelling into his chest, taking his breath away. He heard a whine: Storm, pressing her muzzle into his hand. It was crusted with dried blood.
A cold breeze made his skin tingle as he stood before his mam’s cairn. How can she be gone? He felt her absence like a physical thing, as if a limb had been severed. The events of yesterday seemed like a dream. A nightmare. His mam’s death, so many others, men and giants and great wyrms. And he had seen the cauldron: one of the Seven Treasures, remnant from an age of faery tales. He had seen a bubbling wave of demon-spirits from the Otherworld pouring from it, Asroth’s Kadoshim, filling the bodies of transfixed Jehar warriors like empty vessels. He knew the group who had attacked them had only been a small part of those remaining a dozen leagues to the north; Nathair and his demon-warriors camped within the walls of Murias.
What are we going to do?
He watched as the rest of his followers started to break camp. He searched for Meical but could not see him. Brina stood close to the fire-pi
t, Craf and Fech fluttering about her. He glimpsed Coralen moving quietly to the camp’s fringe, checking on the paddocked horses. Her wolven claws were slung across her shoulders. Corban remembered their words before the battle at Murias, when they had heard of Domhain’s fall, of her father King Eremon’s death. She’d fled into the trees and he’d followed her, wanted to comfort her but not known how. They’d shared a handful of words and for a moment he’d seen through the cold hard walls she’d set about her. He wished he could go back to that moment and say more to her. He saw her head turn, her gaze touching him for a moment, then turning sharply away. Beyond her, a huddle of figures stood – the giants who had fled Murias, clustered together like an outcrop of rock. Closer by, the Jehar were gathering beside the stream, making ready to begin their sword dance. He felt the pull of habit drawing him to join them. Without thinking he approached them, seeking comfort in the act of something familiar amidst the whirl of fear, death and grief that threatened to consume him.
They were gathered about their leader, Tukul, Gar beside him; a few score stood further behind the old warrior – the ones who had saved Corban in Rhin’s fortress. Others were grouped before Tukul, at least twice their number. As Corban approached Tukul raised his voice, saying something in a language Corban did not recognize. The mass of Jehar before him dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. There was one who did not – Corban recognized him as one of the Jehar who had been with Nathair before realizing they had been betrayed. It seemed he was angry about something. Gar stepped forward. From years of knowing him Corban could tell he was furious, a straightness in his back, a tension in the set of his shoulders.
For a moment the two men stood staring at one another, a sense of imminent violence emanating from both of them, then Tukul snapped an order and they stepped apart, the other man stalking away.
Gar saw Corban and walked towards him. His eyes looked raw, red-rimmed. Corban remembered him weeping before his mam’s cairn. The first time he’d seen him display such emotion.
