by John Gwynne
‘They are like children,’ Calidus sighed. ‘I have much to teach them in little time, which is why I need Nathair to cooperate.’
They found the King of Tenebral a short way along the road that approached Murias, the tattered bodies of Jehar warriors and their horses scattered around him, shredded to a bloody mess by the raven storm that Queen Nemain had set upon them. He was stood with his great draig, holding its reins loosely in one hand while it feasted on the corpse of a horse. It pulled its snout from a smashed ribcage to regard them with small black eyes, gore dripping from its jaws. As they drew nearer to Nathair, Uthas glimpsed amongst the fern and gorse one of his kin whom he had set to watch the King of Tenebral.
Nathair heard their approach and looked up. He whispered something to the draig, which went back to devouring the horse’s innards. Nathair turned his back to them, looking out over the bleak landscape of moorland, gentle hills undulating into the horizon.
‘He is out there,’ Nathair said quietly.
‘Who do you speak of?’ Calidus asked.
‘The Bright Star. For so long I have believed that title was mine.’ He turned, calm now, Uthas saw, his rage from the cauldron’s chamber gone, spent. His eyes were dark-rimmed and red. A bruise mottled his jaw.
‘You have deceived me, all this time.’ Nathair looked first at Calidus, then past him, to Alcyon. The giant dropped his head, not meeting Nathair’s gaze.
‘You would not have understood,’ Calidus said.
Nathair raised his eyebrows at that. ‘Something we agree on. My first-sword Veradis will have your heads for this. Thankfully he is not here to witness how far we have fallen.’
‘Time will be the judge,’ Calidus said with a shrug. ‘But there is still a future for you. For us.’
‘What, this is not to be my execution, then?’ Nathair’s eyes flickered to Alcyon and Uthas behind Calidus, and then further off, to the Benothi guards lurking in shadows.
‘No. I came to talk.’
‘It seems to me the time for that has passed. But go on . . .’
‘You see things as you have been taught. Good, evil; right, wrong. But things are not always as they seem—’
‘No, they are not. You are living proof of that. Claiming to be one of the Ben Elim, yet you are the opposite: Kadoshim, a fallen angel, servant of Asroth.’
‘You speak of things about which you have no understanding,’ Calidus snapped. ‘Kadoshim, Ben-Elim, they are just names given by those too ignorant to comprehend. Remember, history is written by the victors. It is not an unassailable truth, but a twisted, moulded thing, corrupted by the victor’s perspective. Elyon is not good; Asroth is not evil. That is a child’s view. The world is not scribed in black and white, but in shades of grey.’
‘So you would have me believe that Asroth is good? That Elyon is the deceiver?’
‘No, something in the middle of that, perhaps, with both parties capable of both good and evil. Like you. More human, if you like. Would that be so hard to imagine?’
Uthas saw something flicker across Nathair’s face. Doubt?
‘Your histories tell that Asroth would destroy this world of flesh,’ Calidus continued. ‘They claim that was Asroth’s purpose in the War of Treasures. Ask yourself: if that were true, then why is he so desperate to come here, to become flesh?’
‘I would not dare to guess after having been proved so monumentally naive,’ Nathair said with a sour twist of his lips. Something of his earlier rage returned, a vein pulsing in his temple.
‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ Calidus scolded, ‘like a sulking child. I have come to you to speak hard truths and would hear you speak in return as the man you can be, the leader of men, the king. Not as a petulant child.’ He took a moment, waiting, letting the weight of his words subdue Nathair’s anger. ‘Now think on this. Asroth would come here not to destroy, but to rule. He would fashion an empire, just as you have imagined. A new order, one defined by peace, once the dissenters were dealt with. No different from your plans. And you could still be a part of it. Our numbers are too few; we will need someone to rule the Banished Lands. Someone who could unite the realms. I believe that someone is you.’
‘And you think I would believe anything that crosses your lips, now. After this?’ Nathair gestured at the towering bulk of Murias.
‘Yes. I would. Put your anger, your pride and shame aside and think. War has raged in the Otherworld for aeons. It has been bloody and violent and heartbreaking. I have seen my brothers cut down, broken, destroyed. And I have returned the violence upon the Ben-Elim a hundredfold. I did what I had to do. Withholding some of the truth from you was necessary. Difficult decisions must be made in war, for the greater good. You know this.’ Calidus paused, holding Nathair with his gaze.
‘There are some lines that cannot be crossed, regardless of the greater good,’ Nathair spat.
‘You forget, Nathair. I know you. I know what you have done. What lines you have already crossed in the name of the greater good.’
Nathair raised a hand and took a step back, as if warding a blow. His draig stopped crunching bones to cast its baleful glare upon Calidus.
‘I do not say it as a criticism, but as a compliment. Once you are committed to a cause you will do whatever is necessary to see it through. Whatever it takes, regardless of the cost. A rare ability in this world of frailty and weakness. And one that we need. I respect that. So I ask you, Nathair: join us. Commit to our cause and you will gain all you desire, see your dreams come to fruition, your ambition rewarded. And if you think on it, it is not so different from all that you were striving for before the scales fell from your eyes.’
Alcyon shifted from behind Calidus. ‘Someone comes,’ he said, pulling his newly acquired war-hammer from his back.
‘Where?’ Calidus asked, hand on sword hilt, eyes narrowed.
Alcyon pointed south-east, into the moorland. A dark speck solidified, moving at considerable speed.
‘It is one of my brothers,’ Calidus said. ‘One of those that left with Danjal.’
They stood in silence as the figure approached. It covered the ground quickly, running with a loping gait. As it drew near, Uthas saw it was weaving.
And something is wrong with its arm.
It must have seen them standing on the road, for it veered towards them, collapsing before Calidus. Its hand was severed just above the wrist, blood still trickling from the wound. It was pale as milk, veins black within its skin. Nathair’s draig gave a low rumbling growl.
‘I am weak,’ the Kadoshim rasped. ‘This body is failing.’
‘I warned you,’ Calidus said. ‘These bodies are still mortal. Soon it will die from loss of blood.’
‘Help me,’ the Kadoshim whispered.
‘Swear to obey me in all things,’ Calidus said, voice cold as winter-forged iron.
‘I swear it. Please . . .’
‘Bind his arm,’ Calidus snapped at Alcyon, kneeling to put an arm about the injured Kadoshim. ‘You must look after your new body, Bune. Like a weapon, it must be cared for. You have lost much blood, but if we treat your wound and feed you, all will be well.’
‘My thanks,’ the creature croaked. ‘I would not return to the Otherworld so soon.’
‘Then no more of this foolish charging off to fight unwinnable battles. Danjal? The others?’
‘All gone, back to the Otherworld. There were too many against us, and these bodies . . .’ Bune held up his uninjured arm. ‘It is taking me some time to adjust to it.’
‘It will. Come, back to our kin where we can tend you better.’ Calidus glanced at Alcyon, who finished binding the wrist and then lifted Bune in his arms. Calidus led them back towards the gates of Murias, Nathair and his draig following slowly behind. Birds circled lazily above, the remnants of Nemain’s ravens lured by the stench of carrion. Uthas glared at them with something akin to hatred, thinking of Fech. As they stepped within the shadow of the fortress, Uthas saw a raven perched on a ledge in the clif
f face. It stared back at him. For a moment he was convinced it was Fech and he raised a hand involuntarily to his scarred face.
Surely not. Fech is not brave or stupid enough to return here.
Calidus looked back to Nathair.
‘Think on my words, King of Tenebral. I would have you fight beside me in the coming war. No more deceptions.’
Nathair paused before the gates and put a hand upon his draig’s neck. Together the King and beast watched Calidus and his companions enter Murias.
‘Watch him closely,’ Calidus whispered to Uthas. ‘If he tries to leave, stop him. Whatever it takes.’
CHAPTER FOUR
MAQUIN
Maquin ran through the undergrowth, trees thick about him. With one hand he pushed aside branches, with the other he held onto Fidele, the Queen Regent of Tenebral, recently married to Lykos, Lord of the Vin Thalun. Until she tried to murder him. I’m guessing that’s the end of their happy nuptials.
She stumbled and he snatched a glance back at her, saw she was breathing heavily, her bridal gown snagged and torn, stained with blood. She needs to rest. The sounds of combat drifted behind him, faint and distant, but still too close for his liking.
It will not be long before Lykos and his Vin Thalun have put down the rioters. Then he’ll be looking for his absent bride. Still, if we run much more she’ll be finished anyway. With a frown he slowed, heard the sound of a stream and changed direction.
Maquin caught his breath as he splashed his face and naked chest with the icy cold water, washing away the blood and grime of the fighting-pit. A hundred different cuts began to sting as the adrenalin of his escape faded, his skin goose-fleshing. He shivered. Should have grabbed a cloak as we fled. He was still dressed for the heat of the pit: boots and breeches, a curved knife in his belt, nothing on his torso except blood and dirt and scars.
I’m free. He sucked in a deep breath, savouring the earthy scents of the forest, reminding him of Forn. Of another life. He closed his eyes as memories flickered through his mind. The Gadrai; his sword-brothers; of Kastell, slain by that traitorous bastard Jael; of Tahir and Orgull, the only other survivors of the betrayal in Haldis. It felt so long ago. The time-before. He looked at his hands, blood still ground into the swirls of his skin, stuck beneath his fingernails. Orgull’s blood.
His friend’s face filled his mind as it had been when he had cradled him – beaten, bloody, dying. A swell of emotion bubbled up, tears blurring his eyes. He remembered Orgull’s last words to him: a request to find a man named Meical and pass on a message. That I stayed true to the end, Orgull had said.
So much death, and yet still I live. More. I am a free man. All right, a refugee, with enemies behind me, and I’m a thousand leagues from home. But I’m free. Free to hunt down Jael and put him in the ground. Even now the thought of Jael burned away all else. He could see his face, lips twisted in a mocking sneer as Maquin had been chained and led to the Vin Thalun ships. Hatred flared incandescent, a pure flame in his gut. He felt himself snarling. A tearing sound drew his attention. Fidele was standing in the stream close by. She was ripping away the lower part of her dress.
‘Easier to run,’ she told him. ‘Here.’ She bunched the fabric and dipped it in the stream, then began washing the filth from his back. She gasped and paused a moment as the myriad scars were revealed, telling the tale of the whip as a slave, countless other cuts and reminders from his time in the fighting-pit. She’d seen him earn some of those scars, watched him fight, kill others. Shame filled him at the things he’d done and he bowed his head.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked quietly.
He blinked; for a moment he had to think about that. ‘Isiltir,’ he said, pronouncing it slowly, like a forgotten friend.
‘What is your name? Who are you?’
In the pit I was called Old Wolf, the only name I’ve gone by for a good long while. I am a trained killer. Have become that which I hate.
‘My name is Maquin,’ he said with a twist of his lips, a step towards reclaiming himself. ‘I was shieldman to Kastell, nephew of King Romar.’
‘Oh,’ Fidele breathed. ‘You are a long way from home. How did you end up . . . ?’
‘In the fighting-pits?’ He paused, the silence stretching, thinking back to before his enslavement, to the life he had led, the friends he had known, pulling at memories buried deep within, of the events that had preceded his life as a slave. ‘Jael has usurped King Romar’s throne – murdered the King, crushed the resistance in Isiltir. I fought him as part of that resistance, but Lykos and his Vin Thalun came, allied to Jael . . .’ He shrugged, his voice was a croak, unused to conversations of more than a few words.
Her hands touched his shoulder, hovering, tracing a swirling design, sending an involuntary shiver through him.
‘Lykos gave me that one,’ he said. ‘Branded me as his slave, his property.’
‘Do you think he’s dead?’
Maquin remembered the last time he’d seen the man, fallen to one knee in the arena, a knife hilt protruding from beneath his ribs, blood pulsing. Combat had swept Maquin away, and when he had looked back Lykos was gone.
‘Doubt it. He’s a tough one.’
‘I want him dead,’ Fidele hissed, a flash of rage contorting her face.
He looked at her a long moment, taken aback by the vehemence in her. He had always thought of her as unapproachably beautiful, calm, serene. ‘Bit strange to marry him, then.’
She stepped away, eyes downcast. ‘I was under a foul magic – he had an effigy, a small clay doll, with a lock of my hair cast within it. You crushed it when you fought him. That set me free.’
Fidele shuddered, her eyes closed. Then she straightened and looked him in the eye.
‘I have not thanked you, for protecting me in the riot, for getting me away to safety.’
Maquin looked about. ‘This is not exactly what I would call safe.’
‘It is safer, by far, than the arena.’
‘True enough.’
All had been chaos back in the arena before Jerolin, and Maquin had taken advantage of it, using the mayhem and confusion to rush Fidele out of the arena. The closest cover had been woodland to the south; Maquin led Fidele in a mad dash across open meadow towards the trees, all the while his heart thudding in his head as he waited for the expected cries of pursuit. None had come as they reached the treeline and so they continued to run deeper into the woodland, Maquin’s only thought to put distance between him and the Vin Thalun. Something had sparked the riot. Maquin’s duel with Orgull had played a part in it, but Maquin had also seen warriors amongst the crowd, urging them on. They had been wearing the white eagle crest of Tenebral. There was some kind of resistance forming against the Vin Thalun, that was clear. But how strong was it? Had they managed to crush the Vin Thalun? To drive them from Jerolin and Tenebral? Maquin doubted it – the Vin Thalun had numbered in their thousands; it would take a lot of manpower to finish them. ‘And what would you do now, my lady?’ Maquin asked her.
She frowned and sat upon a rock. ‘I don’t know is the short answer. I would find out if the Vin Thalun have been defeated –’ she paused, a tremor touching her lips – ‘but I am scared to go back. The thought of being caught is more than I can bear.’
Maquin nodded. I can understand that. For himself, he wanted to leave. To point himself north-west instead of south and aim straight for Jael. What about her, though? He could not just abandon her in the woods.
‘Will you help me?’ she asked. ‘I have seen that you are no friend to Lykos or the Vin Thalun. We have a common enemy.’
‘I’ve had enough of fighting other people’s battles,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my own to fight. I need to go home. I have something to do,’ he muttered quietly, almost to himself. He looked at her face and saw a determination of purpose there, battling with the fear of her circumstances. ‘But I will see you safe first, my lady. If I can.’
She breathed a relieved sigh. ‘My thanks. I will
do all in my power to repay you, and to speed you on your way.’
‘First, we must survive the night and the cold.’
‘Wait here,’ Maquin whispered to Fidele.
They were crouched behind a ridge, looking out upon a wide stretch of land covered in tree stumps. On the far side was a row of timber cabins, piles of felled trunks surrounding them. It was dusk; the forest was grey and silent.
‘Do not come after me for anything. Nothing, you understand?’
She nodded and he slipped away, staying low to the ground,
keeping to the outskirts of the manmade clearing, stalking within
the shadows amongst the trees. Eventually he was behind the row of cabins. Gripping his knife he slipped to the front and entered. Grey light filtered through gaps in the shutters and he paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom.
Cots lined the walls, covered by rough woollen blankets, boots, breeches, and cloaks. A long table ran down the centre of the room, cups and plates scattered upon it. Axes and great two-man saws were all about, and there were racks of water skins, gloves, other work tools. Men live here. Woodcutters. Question is, where are they now?
It came to him quickly – Jerolin and the arena. It’s a big day – celebrations and games to mark Lykos being wed to Fidele.
He quickly grabbed cloaks from pegs, woollen shirts, breeches, some cheese and mutton, water skins and a roll of twine, stuffing them all into an empty bag he’d found.
There was a groan; a blanket shifted on a cot in the corner of the room. A figure sat up – a man, rubbing his eyes.
In heartbeats Maquin had crossed the room and had his knife held to the stranger’s throat, his eyes drawn to the man’s beard, the iron rings binding it.
He is Vin Thalun. A rage bubbled up, threatening to consume him.
‘Please, no—’ the man gasped.
Can’t kill him here – too much blood. His friends will be onto us as soon as they return.
