Ruin

by John Gwynne

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Craf squawked and launched himself into the branches above them, merging with the shadows.

  Cywen turned to see a handful of riders coming through the woods towards them. Coralen was at their head. To one side a Jehar warrior rode, a female with a thick white streak in her black hair. On Coralen’s other side was Dath, his long bow strung and strapped to his saddle. He flashed a grin at Cywen as they drew up in the glade. Storm and Buddai loped up behind them, Buddai padding forward to nuzzle Cywen’s hip.

  ‘Corban was looking for you,’ Coralen said. She wore a wolven pelt for a cloak, a sword at her hip, a knife beside it. Another knife hilt jutted from her boot, and Cywen saw a gauntlet hanging from her saddle pommel, three iron claws protruding from it. Like Corban’s. ‘He wants you back at the camp.’

  ‘He’s my brother, not my lord,’ Cywen snapped. Something about Coralen’s tone irritated her.

  ‘Camp is broken. They’re ready to ride,’ Coralen said. ‘All are waiting on you.’

  ‘We’ll leave when Brina is done,’ Cywen said, knowing she was being childish.

  Coralen shrugged, which annoyed Cywen even more.

  ‘We are done here,’ Brina pronounced.

  Storm growled, Buddai as well, looking at a cluster of trees at the far end of the glade. A twig snapped. In a heartbeat Cywen had a knife from her belt and threw it. It stuck quivering in a trunk. Dath had his bow in his hand, arrow nocked, Coralen and the Jehar had drawn their blades.

  ‘Come out, if you know what’s good for you,’ Coralen said.

  There was a drawn-out moment, then a figure emerged from behind the tree. A giant, but slimmer, gangly limbs, and with no hair upon its face, not even straggly wisps of a moustache, like the other giantlings Cywen had seen.

  A giant bairn, a girl.

  She had her hands raised, palms out, and her eyes were wide, flitting from Storm to the array of weapons lined before her.

  ‘Mi breun chan aimhleas,’ the young giant said.

  ‘She means no harm,’ Brina said. It took a moment for Cywen to realize that Brina had translated from giantish. She can teach me that, if she likes.

  The giant looked at Cywen’s knife stuck in the tree. She pulled it out, stared at the blade a moment, then ran, faster than Cywen would have thought possible.

  ‘Hey, that’s my knife,’ Cywen shouted, but the giantling had already disappeared amongst the trees.

  ‘The Benothi,’ Coralen spat, then shrugged and looked at Cywen and Brina. ‘Nice throw. Now get back to camp if you don’t want to be left behind.’ She looked up at the branches above them. ‘Craf, I know you’re hiding up there. Come with me – you’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Not fair,’ Craf grumbled.

  Fech clacked his beak, the sound like laughter.

  ‘And I don’t know why you’re here,’ Coralen said to Fech. ‘You’re supposed to be flying rearguard.’

  ‘Talking to Brina. Important,’ Fech squawked.

  ‘Not as important as protecting us from Kadoshim,’ Coralen said. ‘Go on with you.’ She spurred her mount on. Dath winked a goodbye and they all rode off, Storm shadowing them. Buddai whined and Cywen rested a hand on his neck. ‘Stay with me, Buds.’

  ‘Tired,’ Craf protested.

  ‘Busy,’ Fech complained, but they both took to flight, flapping noisily away.

  ‘They’re good birds, but lazy,’ Brina said, a half-smile twitching her lips as she watched until they’d disappeared.

  ‘Craf’s too opinionated,’ Cywen said.

  ‘A terrible affliction, I must agree.’ Brina regarded Cywen with a raised eyebrow. Cywen had the good manners to blush.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Brina said. ‘Make sure that bag’s tied properly, and be quick about it. Don’t be ruining my supply of elder.’

  Cywen sighed and rolled her eyes. What have I let myself in for?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CAMLIN

  Camlin checked over his kit methodically. He’d put a fresh coat of wax on his long bow of yew and had three hemp strings rolled in wax in a leather pouch. A quiver of thirty arrows stood wrapped in oiled doeskin – the ship they were sailing upon was a trader and had a good selection of furs and tanned skins. He emptied his bag, checked over its contents again. A copper box packed with dry tinder and kindling. A flint and iron. Fish-hooks and animal gut for the stitching of wounds. Various medicinal herbs – honey, sorrel leaves, yarrow and seed of the poppy. A roll of linen bandages. An arterial strap. An iron to heat for the cauterization of wounds. A needle and hemp thread. And a pot.

  I’m looking at the difference between life and death.

  Most of it he’d traded or won at dice during the journey from Domhain. Some of it he’d bought. He knew it would be needed, and they would reach their destination soon: Ardan, ruled by the enemy, where they would be hunted.

  A horn rang out above him, muted by timber, and shouts followed.

  Land.

  Camlin climbed above-decks and rolled his shoulder and lifted his arm, more out of habit than need. It had healed well. Over a ten-night had passed since Baird had pulled the shaft through his shoulder. Three days ago he’d strung and nocked his bow, tested to see if he could draw it. His muscles had protested and he’d not pushed them. He’d done the same each day, and earlier today he’d managed a full draw, a bit shaky, but nothing had snapped, so that was good enough for him.

  The first person on the deck he saw was Vonn, leaning at a rail, staring at a dark line on the horizon. A coastline rose up from the horizon, dark cliffs and tangled coves. Land. Camlin grinned at the sight of it.

  Ardan.

  Around him the ship’s crew were busy, climbing in rigging, securing ropes. Doing what sailors do. There was a tension in the air now, an excitement. The end of their time at sea had arrived, and they were about to begin something new. Something more dangerous, most likely, but I don’t care. Another night on this damn tub and I’ll go mad.

  Others were gathering on the deck now, warriors preparing to disembark. Camlin joined Vonn. ‘Home,’ Vonn told him.

  Vonn’s face was a mixture of emotion – longing, fear. It’ll be hard for him. His da rules there now.

  ‘You ready for this?’ Camlin asked him.

  Vonn looked at him for a few long moments. ‘I’m ready. I’ve always been ready. The night Dun Carreg fell I was ready. If my oath to Edana had not kept me with her, I’d have put a sword through my da’s traitorous heart.’

  Right now, I believe you. But words are easier spoken than deeds are done. How would you feel if you stood before Evnis? Could see him, look him in the eye, hear his words?

  ‘Is that really Ardan?’ a voice said behind them. Camlin turned to see Edana. Her hand rested on a sword at her hip. Our warrior Queen. Baird stood beside her. The one-eyed warrior had become her shadow, rarely leaving her side.

  ‘Aye, it is,’ Camlin said.

  ‘There were times when I thought I’d never return.’ Edana took a deep breath. ‘Time to roll the dice.’

  Why does she look at me whenever dice are mentioned?

  They stood together and watched the coast grow closer, their ship angling towards a cove with steep-sided cliffs. The sail was furled and two rowing boats were lowered from the deck to the slate-grey sea. Roisin and Edana spoke to the captain, thanked him, and then the group of them were rowing towards the coast. They scraped onto a thin strip of shingle and clambered onto solid ground, Camlin grinning for the joy of it. I hate the sea. It felt strange, the ground steady beneath his feet, and he stumbled as his body still compensated for the eternal pitch and roll of a ship’s deck.

  Roisin stood with Lorcan, her warriors spread protectively about them, a score of men. Most of them gazed up at the cliffs. Seamen from the rowing boats deposited a barrel onto the shingle, then with a last goodbye and a wave they rowed back to their ship.

  ‘Smoked herring,’ Baird pronounced as he sniffed the barrel. ‘Draw lots for who’s carrying it?’r />
  ‘I’ll carry it,’ a tall and solid warrior said. He didn’t seem to have a neck. Brogan, one of Roisin’s. Camlin had won a fine deerskin belt from him.

  ‘No complaints from me,’ Baird grinned.

  ‘Vonn, with me,’ Camlin said, and without a look back he was climbing the slope, following a narrow goat track into the cove’s cliffs, twisting its way upwards. He used his unstrung bow as a staff. The calling of gulls in the air was loud, the cliffs of the cove clustered with nests; here and there were stunted bushes bent by the wind.

  Camlin emerged onto a landscape of rolling moorland and hidden gullies. He could see for leagues and took a few moments to check for company, then he turned and waved to those gathered below, all looking up at him. They started their climb.

  He turned back to study the land. To the east the undulating moors dropped and flattened, glistening as sun reflected on a marshy peninsula that continued into the horizon, patches of it darkened by woodland. Here and there pillars of smoke marked holds, farm-steads, a small village. None close enough to worry about, though. And I am supposed to lead this rag-tag band to Dun Crin, ruined fortress of the giants. Is it even out there, in those marshlands? During their voyage Edana had spoken of this with him, of how King Eremon had received word that a resistance was growing in Ardan against Evnis, and that it was based around the ruins of Dun Crin, in the marshes. Well, there are the marshes. And if there’s a ruin out there, I’ll find it. What happens then, I’m not so sure. One step at a time. Vonn climbed, panting, to stand beside him and they both looked northeast. Towards Dun Carreg.

  It was too far away to see, but Camlin could make out a dark stain on the horizon. Baglun Forest. Been there. Not my best memories. That had been when he was part of Braith’s crew, come to the Baglun to cause some mischief in Ardan. Little had he known at the time that it was all at Rhin’s behest. He’d ended up with a knife in the back, put there by one of Evnis’ sworn men.

  And now here he was, a refugee on the other side, playing guide to the fugitive Queen of Ardan and the fugitive King of Domhain. He peered over the cliff, saw them labouring up the twisting path behind him. He’d followed his own twisted path to this spot. From bandit to shieldman. What next?

  Warriors emerged from the path, Edana with Baird. Camlin saw she was grinning.

  ‘The cry of gulls, it sounds like home,’ Edana answered his questioning look.

  ‘Home is fifty leagues that way,’ Camlin said, pointing along the coast. Dun Carreg was there somewhere, and between them a host of Rhin’s sworn men, led by Evnis, the man who had slain Edana’s father.

  Edana’s smile evaporated as she stood staring into the distance. Men crouched, drank from water skins. Warriors in a strange land, thought Camlin. They were all hard men in Roisin’s company, battle-tested and loyal, hand-picked by Rath.

  ‘Why have we landed here?’ Roisin said, frowning at the countryside. She was no longer dressed in her fine velvet dresses, instead wearing dun breeches, a linen tunic and leather vest, over it a dark cloak, but to Camlin she looked just as beautiful as when draped in her court finery. And as dangerous.

  ‘We are too exposed here, too close to Dun Carreg,’ Roisin continued. ’We should have landed in the marshes. Less likely for us to run into Rhin’s followers, and it would be harder to track us. This is a mistake.’

  Is this intentional? Undermining Edana?

  Edana gave Roisin a hard look. ‘There are reasons why we are here. Dun Crin is our destination, a ruin somewhere in those marshes. We don’t know exactly where it is. It could be twenty leagues to the south, or one league east. Camlin is a masterful scout and he will find it, I have no doubt.’

  I am? I will?

  ‘He suggested we begin from higher ground. Once we are in the marshes the travelling will be slow going. It will be easier to cover ground on better terrain, skirt the marshes and choose a point of entry.’ She paused and gave a moment to look at each one of them.

  ‘This is my land,’ Edana said, looking at the warriors gathered about her. ‘It’s been taken from me. My parents murdered. My people scattered and oppressed.’ She looked at the gathered warriors, meeting each eye. ‘You are all brave faithful men, and I thank you for your courage and your honour. Do not think that Lorcan and I are beaten. We have yet to begin the fight. We will win back our rightful thrones, with your help, and that starts here, today. That starts now.’

  Warriors nodded, muttered their approval. Even Camlin felt his blood stirred at her words. She’s growing up.

  ‘Camlin,’ Edana said to him. ‘Take us to Dun Crin.’

  Camlin sped through the village, his bow strung and arrow nocked. He kept to the shadows as much as possible.

  They had walked all day, steadily descending from the moorlands towards the marshes. Now they were in a kind of borderland, the terrain dry enough for scattered woodland and roads, but dissected by a thousand streams and middling rivers. Camlin had spied the village and planned on circling around it, but something had drawn his eye. The lack of sound or movement. And there were no signs of normal village life, hearth fires, livestock, dogs – nothing. Instinct told him he needed a closer look, and so did Edana when he informed her of his concerns.

  Now he was starting to regret it, though.

  Probably another bad idea to add to my long list of bad ideas, he berated himself. Why couldn’t I just mind my own business and walk around?

  He looked to the far side of the street, where Baird was keeping pace with him, his sword drawn. Camlin had also sent half a dozen men wide around the village, with orders to sit and wait for him and Baird. Unless they heard trouble – then they were to come running. The rest of their crew were camped a quarter-league back, with Edana and Roisin. Lorcan had volunteered to come with them, but Camlin had told him to sit tight; he’d received a sulky glare in return.

  The village was small, built on the banks of a river. Camlin had seen the tips of willow rods in the river, the tell-tale ripple of a current around submerged salmon traps, nets left out to dry along the bank. A dozen coracles, assorted river craft and flat-bottomed marsh boats were pulled out of the river. There were no more than a few score homes, and so far he had not seen a single person, had not heard a single voice.

  He crossed a gap between buildings, paused to look around a corner, saw a crow picking at the carcass of a dog. He walked past it, almost certain now what he would find.

  Camlin smelt it first. Death. The metallic hint of blood, mixed with rot and excrement. He hung his head, readied himself before he went on.

  The street spilt into an open area, what would have been a market square. A roundhouse stood on its far side. About halfway between Camlin and the roundhouse a gallows had been erected, a dozen or so small figures hanging in the still air. A fury rose within him.

  Bairns. He took a step forward and then halted abruptly.

  The ground between Camlin and the gallows was black, uneven, and moving.

  Crows. Hundreds of them. And flies.

  Camlin and Baird shared a look and they both moved into the square. Crows rose up before them like a wave, cawing and screeching their protests.

  Part-eaten bodies were everywhere, the stench verging on over-whelming. Men, women, children, seething with flies and maggots. Over a hundred. The whole village? Camlin saw the glint of iron and checked a body. A warrior in a shirt of mail. His cloak was tattered, torn to pieces, splattered with blood, but Camlin could still make out the black and gold of Cambren.

  Rhin.

  He felt suddenly vulnerable and turned a slow circle, scanning the surrounding buildings, the dark shadows of the roundhouse. Baird appeared in the shadow of a doorway, shook his head.

  Nothing. They are all dead, or fled to the marshes.

  Camlin carried on searching amongst the dead, making his way deeper into the courtyard. He found three more in Rhin’s cloaks of black and gold. Reaching down he unclasped one, pulling it free, stirring up a cloud of flies in the process
.

  Then he heard a noise, looked over at a building with wide, open doors. He heard it again, coming from within. The whicker of a horse.

  Stables? Why are there horses alive, when every other man, woman, child and beast has been slain?

  More movement, this time from the roundhouse at the far side of the square. Figures emerging. Warriors – five of them – cloaks of black and gold, swords in hands. Eyes fixed upon him, they were striding purposefully towards him.

  He dropped the cloak in his grip and drew an arrow, nocked and released in less than a few of their strides. It took the first warrior through the eye, dropping him like a felled tree. The others began to run at him.

  Not the effect I’d hoped for.

  He drew and released again, the arrow hissing between warriors as they spun out of its way.

  Camlin cursed as he released the next arrow, this one punching low, into a man’s belly. He dropped to his knees.

  Then a figure crashed into the three still running at him. Baird, sword rising and falling. One of their enemy screamed, his belly open and guts spilling about his feet. Another had grabbed Baird, whose head lunged forward, butting the warrior’s nose even as his sword stabbed into the warrior’s side. Camlin stood and stared a moment, frozen by the ferocity of his companion. Then his eye was drawn to the roundhouse. Three more men burst from the doorway, two running towards Baird, the other sprinting around the edge of the courtyard, making for the stables.

  Before Camlin realized it he had another arrow nocked and was sighting at one of those charging at Baird. It slammed into the warrior’s shoulder, spinning and dropping him. The other was too close to Baird for another shot. Camlin glanced between Baird and the warrior sprinting towards the stables, drew his sword and ran to Baird’s help.

  He almost didn’t need to. By the time he reached them Baird had put one man down and was trading blows with the other, backing the warrior up. A panicked glance from the warrior at Camlin was all Baird needed, his sword opening the man’s throat.

  Hooves thudded and the last warrior burst from the stables, kicking a horse hard into a gallop. Camlin dropped his sword and drew an arrow, tracked the warrior, who was bent low in the saddle, almost hugging the horse’s arched neck. Camlin’s arrow took him in the throat; the warrior sagged, slumping from the saddle to be dragged by the still-galloping horse.