Ruin

by John Gwynne

  With a deep roar from Nathair’s draig they left Murias, the cauldron on its great wain rolling into the spring sunshine, a dozen other smaller wains strung out behind it. A thousand of the Kadoshim marched around them. At the warband’s head Nathair rode upon his draig, Calidus mounted on a Jehar stallion beside him. Uthas and Alcyon marched alongside them. Above, ravens cawed and circled, leaving their nests in Murias’ cliffs, shadowing them like a dark halo.

  They know death will be our constant companion.

  They followed the road that led from Murias, down a slope from the mountain and into a land of rolling moors and purple heather. Calidus lifted a hand and beckoned to Uthas.

  ‘I do not like the thought of Meical out there. He has too few numbers to defeat us, but he could still be plotting some mischief. I’m going to follow his trail, make sure he’s not being cleverer than I give him credit for.’

  Soon after, Calidus left their warband with a hundred of the Kadoshim. Uthas accompanied them, his shieldman Salach at his side. Nathair was instructed to keep the column moving along the road. The King of Tenebral nodded, a bloodstained linen bandage wrapped around one hand. Uthas felt a wave of pity for him, remembering how Nathair had collapsed to his knees as Asroth had scoured him, searching his soul for any hint of treachery.

  ‘Lead us to their camp,’ Calidus ordered Bune, the only Kadoshim that had survived the rushed attempt to regain the star-stone axe. He had recovered from his injury, his severed wrist bound with leather. He raised his head, sniffing, then took off at a loping run eastwards towards a line of low hills. Calidus kicked his horse into a canter and the small host followed.

  ‘They can run, these Kadoshim,’ Salach said to Uthas after they had covered three or four leagues. Uthas grunted his agreement. The Kadoshim had settled into their new bodies now, and they ran with a supple power, their stamina seeming to match the giants’.

  They moved into the hills; Calidus, ordering the pace to slow, sent a dozen of the Kadoshim fanning out ahead.

  ‘He is teaching them,’ Salach observed.

  ‘Aye, and they are quick learners.’

  They crested a low hill and Calidus reined in his horse.

  A dell spread before them. The grass had been flattened by many people, a section burned by a large fire. A row of cairns sat close to the stream, Uthas counted sixteen and saw that three of the cairns were bigger than the others – cairns built for giants.

  Asroth below, let Balur lie in one of those.

  Beyond the cairns was a stand of trees, bent and twisted by the wind. Headless corpses dangled from their branches like the tattered banners of a defeated foe.

  Calidus watched as the Kadoshim spread through the camp, scratching at the ground, sniffing, some snarling and growling like animals.

  ‘They are gone,’ Calidus said as Uthas reached him. ‘Probably the day after the battle, two days ahead of us. Where will Meical take them, though? That is the question.’

  ‘Let him run,’ Salach sneered. Calidus frowned at him. Some of the Kadoshim reached the cairns and began pulling away the stones.

  ‘You have outmanoeuvred him every step thus far,’ Uthas said.

  ‘Aye, thus far. We must never underestimate Meical, though. I never have, and that is why we are ahead. That is why this will end with his wings sheared and his head on a spike.’ Calidus looked up at the corpses dangling from the trees, heads severed. ‘But we must not forget that Meical is no fool, and he has some powerful allies.’

  Balur One-Eye not least amongst them. ‘And he has the starstone axe,’ Uthas said. ‘So what now? Where has Meical gone with his rabble?’

  ‘It does not matter.’ Calidus shrugged. ‘He has too few about him to challenge us for the cauldron. And we cannot change our course. The cauldron must be taken to a safer place. We will continue to Tenebral, and Meical will continue to plot and scheme, but he is undone. His more powerful allies are dead, his attempts at power blocked, thwarted. The war is won, as long as we keep our heads.’

  Literally, Uthas thought, glancing at the headless corpses swaying above them.

  Calidus looked up, Uthas following his gaze to a dot in the sky. A bird, high above. It circled lower, huge wings spread, riding the current until it was close enough for Uthas to see the curve of its beak.

  I recognize that bird.

  Calidus held an arm out, and with a beat of its wings the great hawk alighted on his forearm. Calidus scratched its chest.

  ‘Kartala,’ he said. ‘Your master is dead, then.’

  The bird stared at him, its head cocked to one side.

  ‘Bune – share your meal.’

  One of the Kadoshim that was taking bites out of a Jehar corpse threw Calidus a chunk of rotting flesh. Calidus ripped off pieces and fed them to the bird.

  ‘Kartala was my link to Ventos. The man who tracked Corban, who told us of his coming north.’

  ‘I remember,’ Uthas said. ‘You sent Alcyon south to waylay Corban on the information from this Ventos.’

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately something happened between Ventos’ last message and Corban’s arrival at Murias. Involving a hundred or so Jehar warriors and Ventos’ death, I’m guessing,’ Calidus said sourly. He shrugged. ‘Such is the way of war. Things change, people die, information often travels too slowly. You can help us with that, though,’ he said to the bird. ‘Meical is leading Corban and a band of miscreants about the countryside, and I need to know where he is going. You understand, Kartala? Meical and Corban. That is their trail.’ He pointed to the wide path of trampled grass that led southwards through the hills.

  Kartala beat her wings and lifted into the air, the power of her departure making the corpses sway and creak in the trees.

  ‘That should go a long way to avoiding any more unannounced interruptions,’ Calidus said.

  ‘Indeed.’

  The Kadoshim had now uncovered the giant cairns and Uthas looked in, scowling when he didn’t see Balur amongst the dead.

  Calidus held up a hand as one of the Kadoshim reached the cairn he was standing beside. He leaned over, picking up the purple flower of a thistle that was resting upon it and sniffed at it like a hound. Calidus nodded for the Kadoshim to proceed and it tore at the cairn, heaving stones and hurling them with a strength even more prodigious than its companions’.

  ‘He’s a strong one,’ Salach remarked.

  ‘When the starstone axe was taken from Alcyon the cauldron’s link with the Otherworld was broken; my kin felt it happening. Many of them sped through the veil in those last moments, swarmed into one body before the gateway was severed. That is the body.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Uthas asked.

  ‘His name is Legion, because . . . well, it’s self-explanatory, really.’

  Uthas raised an eyebrow.

  In short moments a body had been uncovered – a woman, dark hair, skin waxy in death. ‘Ahh,’ Calidus said, smiling. ‘I recognize her. She put a knife or two in me during the battle.’ He looked at the thistle between his fingers, twirled it, then slipped it inside his cloak. ‘Take her head,’ he ordered Salach. He gestured to the Kadoshim already sniffing at the corpse. ‘And they can have the rest.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MAQUIN

  Maquin ran through the trees, the sound of Fidele’s footfalls just behind.

  Running away, again. This is becoming a very bad habit.

  They had been running a long time, Maquin’s lungs burning with each breath. Evening was not far off.

  The sight of the giants had aroused his curiosity. What does Lykos want with them? How long has he kept them prisoner? Why are they so heavily guarded? Lykos was a sly, cunning strategic man. There must be some purpose for him to invest so much in guarding these giants. Do not ask. I do not want to know, do not care. My life has become complicated enough already. Those giants are another distraction that I do not need. There is only Jael. Getting involved here has already led to Vin Thalun on my trail and a woman slowing me d
own, when I could have been leagues closer to Isiltir by now. Nevertheless he was finding it hard to not think of the two giants. There had been something pitiful about them, something broken. They are slaves; he knew how that felt. It had stoked his hatred of the Vin Thalun, and he felt that hatred still, a white-hot glow that threatened to consume him. They are following us. He’d heard their calls as they’d crossed the river, occasionally heard them crashing through the forest – they are seafarers, not woodsmen – and he’d wanted to stop, to turn back and hunt the hunters, see their blood spilt, lives ended, but he knew he could not. Responsibility drove him, made him flee. Behind him Fidele’s breaths were laboured, ragged. He slowed his pace, then stopped.

  She was flushed, sweating, dark hair plastered to her face, clearly exhausted. And yet she has not asked to stop. Not what he would have expected from a pampered queen. There is a strength in her. Pride and determination.

  ‘Do not stop . . . on my account,’ she breathed.

  There was a rumble overhead – thunder – and a raindrop dripped onto Maquin’s nose.

  ‘Senios will have told them of you. They will continue following us,’ Maquin said.

  ‘And he’ll have told them about you. They may think twice about chasing us.’

  ‘No, they’ll just send enough to make sure the job gets done.’

  ‘How many is enough? I saw you in the arena – against four.’

  Maquin looked away. He remembered that day, remembered seeing the four warriors appear through the arena gates. Remembered each individual as they bled out in the mud.

  ‘Depends how good they are,’ he shrugged, banishing the memory. He looked about the forest. ‘They are seafarers, not at home in a forest. Me, I lived in Forn. They should send at least seven, to be sure, and there were more than enough of them to do that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I counted twenty-two at their camp. They’d need at least ten to guard the giant and her bairn, probably a few more than that. Two would have left to take word to Lykos. That leaves around ten, depending on how many stay with the giants.’

  She nodded resolutely. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Keep running, until it’s too dark for them to track us at least. Then we’ll go on some more, to be safe.’

  Fidele nodded wearily and they set off again.

  It was raining harder now, water dripping constantly from the canopy above. They were following a narrow trail; the undergrowth about them was dense and impenetrable. Maquin had considered leaving the path, forging into the forest, but that would only make them easier to track and slow them down as well. Speed is what we need.

  Something changed around them. Maquin sniffed the air; an earthiness rose above the other scents of the forest. He slowed, then stopped. Fidele stumbled into him, knocking him a step forward.

  The ground shifted beneath him and his foot sank into the ground past his ankle, black mud bubbling up around it. His first reaction was to heave backwards, but to his horror it felt as if some creature had gripped and pulled at his foot.

  At a quick glance the ground appeared normal, covered in lichen and vine, but as he looked closer he saw it shift, a ripple spreading about his boot. A sinking hole. Panic bubbled in his gut. He’d seen them in Forn, seen a giant trapped and sucked below the surface in a matter of moments.

  ‘Take my hand,’ Fidele said, stretching out to him. He gripped her wrist and very slowly leaned backwards, resisting the urge to heave with all his might. Slowly he felt his foot move, pulling free of the sucking mud. With a squelch and a popping sound his foot appeared and he was free. He nodded thanks to Fidele and drew his sword, prodding at the ground to negotiate their way around.

  After that they proceeded more slowly. Visibility dropped steadily until shapes began to blur around them. They spilt into a clearing where dark shadows were heaped on the ground. Maquin saw the dull gleam of metal, heard a groan. He drew his knife, hissing at Fidele to stay back, then made his way forwards.

  Thunder cracked overhead, lightning flashed, for a heartbeat illuminating the glade as brightly as highsun. Warriors were strewn upon the ground. The first he reached bore the eagle of Tenebral upon a battered cuirass, dead eyes staring, throat opened. Others were Vin Thalun. The last he approached still lived, a warrior of Tenebral; his breathing was laboured and uneven.

  A shadow loomed behind Maquin and he tensed, but it was only Fidele. She crouched and stroked the wounded warrior’s forehead. He was a young man, his face pale and eyes wide with pain. He stared at Fidele, recognition slowly dawning.

  ‘My . . . lady.’

  ‘What is your name?’ Fidele asked him gently.

  ‘Drusus,’ the warrior breathed.

  ‘What happened here, Drusus?’

  ‘We fled the arena—’ He grimaced with pain. ‘Peritus’ orders. Split up, regroup in half a ten-night. But the Vin Thalun followed us. We could not shake them.’

  ‘You fought well,’ Fidele said. Maquin grunted his agreement. Five eagle-warriors were scattered about the clearing, eleven Vin Thalun.

  ‘Peritus still lives, then?’ Fidele asked.

  The warrior nodded.

  ‘And Lykos?’

  ‘I do not know,’ the warrior said. ‘All was chaos.’ Pain racked him, and he gave a gurgled hiss. Maquin checked him over. Superficial wounds everywhere. Two were more serious. A deep wound in his thigh, and one in his back, a hole punching through the lower section of his cuirass. Blood made black by the twilight pulsed rhythmically. Fidele looked at Maquin, a question in her eyes.

  Will he live? Maquin shrugged his answer, tore a strip of linen from his shirt and tied it tight around the warrior’s thigh. The wound in his back was another matter. If it hasn’t hit a kidney or his liver he may live. He’s already lost a lot of blood, so who knows? But he’s most likely dead anyway. The Vin Thalun on our trail will find him.

  ‘Help me lift him,’ Maquin said to Fidele.

  Together they raised the warrior up. He was unsteady, standing only a moment unaided before his knees buckled.

  ‘Over here,’ Maquin said, half-carrying the young warrior into the undergrowth.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Fidele asked.

  ‘Hiding him,’ Maquin grunted, pushing through a thicket.

  ‘We can’t leave him – the Vin Thalun following us . . .’ Fidele said.

  ‘I know.’ Maquin shrugged. ‘He can’t walk. We can’t carry him, or stay. Staying means dying, and I’ll not be dying for him.’

  Fidele’s face shifted. A look of horror swiftly replaced with determination. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll not abandon him. He is one of my people.’

  Maquin laid Drusus down. ‘This is war, not wishful thinking. We stay and we’ll die. Simple as that. He’s a warrior, knows the life he’s chosen. Don’t you, lad.’

  ‘Aye,’ Drusus gasped. ‘You must leave, my lady.’

  She looked between them.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool.’

  ‘He is a man of Tenebral, has risked his life for this realm, for me. I’ll not just walk away from him, abandoning him to certain death.’

  ‘Your dying too won’t keep him alive any longer. It’s not brave, not noble, just foolish. You’re throwing away his sacrifice – their sacrifice – by dying yourself.’

  Fidele looked pale, but he recognized the stubborn set of her jaw. ‘I said no. And you should remember, I am queen of this realm.’

  ‘Not my queen,’ Maquin growled, anger at her bubbling up. ‘Fine. Stay and die if you wish.’ He stalked away, gathered up some weapons from the dead warriors and returned to Fidele. She was sitting beside Drusus, speaking quietly to him. The warrior lay with his eyes closed, his breathing shallow.

  ‘My offer to you was to help you stay alive, not sit and die with you. You should come with me.’ He held out his hand.

  She just shook her head. ‘I swore an oath to protect my people.’

  Another bound by an oath.
I am not alone, then. ‘Take these.’ He laid a spear on the ground beside her, put a knife in her hand. He kept another knife for himself. ‘If they find you, use the spear first. Keep the butt end low and push up, hard, like this.’

  ‘I will.’

  Maquin stared at her again, wishing she would relent and come with him. The expression on her face told him otherwise. Determined, resolute. Stubborn. With a scowl, he turned to walk away.

  ‘Maquin,’ Fidele called after him.

  ‘Aye.’ He paused but did not look back.

  ‘Thank you. For all you have done for me.’

  He walked away.

  The forest was dark now, ruptured by sporadic bursts of lightning. Idiot woman, to fight so hard for life, only to throw it away for a dying man. Still, what point freedom if you cannot decide what you will die for? Deep down he felt a stirring of respect for her. Walk on, man. You are free. Free to leave Tenebral, free to hunt down Jael, free to finally seek your vengeance. He blinked rain from his eyes.

  Damn her. He stopped. With a snarl he turned and strode back the way he had come. Soon he was back amongst the dead warriors. He passed through the glade like a ghost, not knowing or caring if Fidele was aware of him retracing their steps along the forest trail.

  Voices sounded ahead, and then he saw the flutter of torchlight. He stepped away from the path and nimbly climbed a tree, its branches hanging thick and low. He drew one of his knives, the heaviest one with a wide blade and a round iron pommel, the handle carved from bone.

  Then he waited.

  Men emerged from the gloom. He counted four, six, seven.

  Too many.

  A few held torches, including the first, an older warrior with the familiar iron rings bound into his beard. He paused as he passed the tree Maquin was in, crouching to study the ground. His torch hissed as rain dripped upon it.

  ‘They came this way,’ the old warrior said.

  ‘We should make camp, continue in the morning. We could miss them in the dark,’ another said, a younger man gripping a spear. He was standing at the back of their column, his eyes nervously scanning the darkness of the forest.