by John Gwynne
Corban looked around; the village appeared almost deserted. Here and there a face could be spied peering from shuttered windows.
‘Looks like you succeeded.’
‘It wasn’t easy,’ Dath said. ‘Don’t think they’re used to seeing even one or two new faces up here. The sight of you lot coming towards them . . .’
‘What’s the road ahead like?’ Meical asked.
‘I’ve sent Craf and the Jehar scouts ahead. Haven’t heard anything, so it must be clear. I’m going to wait until everyone’s through the village, then I’ll join them.’
‘Something bothering you?’ Corban asked.
‘No. Just want to make sure there’s no harm done.’
‘We’ve no quarrel with these people.’
‘I know, but fear can lead to rash acts.’
‘True enough. You’ve done well.’
She felt a smile twitch at her mouth, then scowled at herself. I’m not a bairn to blush at praise.
‘I’ll see you after,’ she muttered, and reined in at the side of the road, Dath and Kulla silently joining her. Together they watched the warband sweep past, three hundred of the Jehar, Gar and Tukul leading them, a cluster of giants, Balur with his black axe at their centre. Brina and Cywen rode by, heads close in conversation. The bird Fech sat on Brina’s saddle, his head bobbing, beak opening and closing as if he were joining in their discussion.
Craf won’t be happy about Fech getting a ride while he’s off working for his supper.
‘You’re supposed to be our rearguard eyes,’ Coralen called out to the raven.
‘Fech is educating me,’ Brina said to her.
The last of the warband passed through, the Jehar Akar riding rearguard with a score of his warriors. Coralen waited a moment and then followed.
She rode away from the settlement and into the treeline, pausing to look back at the village beside the river. A flicker of movement drew her eyes upwards, to a bird high above. For a moment she thought it was Fech, but then she saw the bird hovering, raptor-like, and then it dived, hurtling towards the meadow and scooping up something in its talons. Coralen heard a faint squeak, a spray of blood and the hawk landed, its beak ripping into flesh.
In the village a huddle of people had emerged from their homes. One of them raised a hand to Coralen – the woman from the river. She returned the gesture with a smile and rode into the woods.
Two nights had passed since Coralen left the village behind, the warband ploughing deeper into Narvon. The terrain was similar to the north of Domhain where she had spent most of her life: leagues of rolling moor and black rock, shifting slowly towards greener vales, the horizon to the south carpeted with dark woodland and twisting rivers. Storm loped alongside, the rest of her scouts spread in a half-circle either side of her across a league or so of ground.
Domhain. Home. She felt a flash of guilt at the thought of her homeland, its warbands broken, her father King Eremon murdered. And now Rhin was sitting upon its throne. And Conall, her puppetking. The thought of her half-brother ruling in Domhain would have been ludicrous, if she had not seen him at Dun Vaner, if she had not looked into his eyes and seen the rage and pain radiating from them. What has happened to you?
And what of Rath and Baird, of the Degad? Rath had near enough raised her. Fech had told them of Eremon’s death and the fall of Domhain, and periodically guilt would rise up and consume her. I should have been there, fighting beside Rath.
And what would that have achieved? Me dead as well? It was Rath who had sent her from Domhain, Rath who had ordered her to guide Corban north through the mountains, but she knew that she had not been unhappy about that order. Another pang of guilt spiked at that. But somehow the guilt would always retreat, overcome by another emotion entirely. There was something about riding with this crew that felt different. As if she had been around them all her life.
And then there was Corban. She found her thoughts straying to him more and more often when she rode alone. She tried to convince herself: It is concern, for a friend, over the choices he is being forced to make.
A flapping from above drew her attention, Craf swooping down from a slate grey sky. He was flustered, squawking as he descended.
‘Warband, warband, warband,’ the bird screeched as he alighted on her saddle pommel.
‘Where?’ Coralen demanded.
‘Ahead.’
‘How many?’
‘A forest of spears and swords,’ he croaked gloomily.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CORBAN
Corban crawled across spongy grass, through red heather and fern, Coralen’s boots just in front, Gar and Meical right behind him. After a quick discussion with Meical about Craf’s sighting of the warband Corban had called a halt so he could take a look at what faced them.
‘Down there,’ Coralen pointed down a long slope to where the land levelled. First he saw the scouts, a score of horsemen strung out across the incline, making their way steadily uphill. About half a league behind them a warband was emerging from woodland, halting upon the banks of a wide stream to refill water skins and barrels. The broken branch of Cambren fluttered on banners, framed in black and gold.
‘Rhin’s,’ Corban muttered.
‘Who else?’ said Meical. ‘She’s defeated every other realm within a hundred leagues.’
‘At least three hundred swords,’ Gar whispered as he drew alongside Corban. More warriors were still emerging from the trees, a steady flow. The first ranks crossed the stone bridge that spanned the stream. From this distance it was a slow-moving forest of leather and iron. A line of wains rumbled into view, shaggy-haired aurochs pulling them, bellowing as they climbed. Steadily they crossed the bridge, continuing along the wide giants’ road.
What are we going to do?
It was one thing to lead three hundred warriors across a remote countryside, through small villages whose inhabitants hid or ran. It was another thing entirely to be marching towards an enemy who probably outnumbered you. But they are not Jehar warriors or Benothi giants, a voice whispered in his mind. If we fought them we would win.
And how many of those who are following me would die?
Gar tapped his shoulder and signalled they should move back.
They crawled away, stood when the ridge hid them and mounted in silence.
‘Craf, keep an eye on them,’ Corban said to the crow.
‘Work, work, work,’ Craf muttered as he flapped into the air.
Corban looked around and saw Meical, Gar and Coralen all staring at him.
‘What are you going to do?’ Meical asked him.
I don’t know. Fight? Flight?
Fear had settled in his gut like a heavy stone. Not fear of fighting or even of his own death – he had experienced enough battles now, and while there was always an element of fear present, he knew that he had the mastery of it. And besides, he had seen more terrifying sights recently, not least Kadoshim demons made flesh and the horrors they had inflicted.
What am I so scared of?
He touched his heels to Shield and rode away, heading back to the warband, the others following in silence.
Back to the warband. Back to my warband.
And then he realized. It was one thing choosing to enter battle yourself. And if others chose to follow you, well, that had given him some worry, but in the end it was their decision, not his. This time, though, he had led people here, to this point. He had chosen this course. He had expected resistance, to encounter the enemy, but not yet, and in his mind the resistance had consisted of minor skirmishes along the road. Part of him had hoped that they would be able to avoid any large conflict at the very least until they had reached the border with Ardan. Certainly he had not expected to march straight into a warband of Rhin’s so soon, especially not one where the outcome of battle was so uncertain.
I am scared of people dying because of my decisions, my mistakes.
Gar cantered closer.
‘Are you all right, Ban?�
�
‘No.’ The warband came into view, spread along the slope. Corban looked about: undulating moorland surrounded them. If we were to fight, the terrain here is no good. Too open against an enemy that outnumbers us. The sun glowed behind thick cloud. It’s highsun. Plenty of the day left. I need some time to think.
Concerned faces watched him – men, women, giants. Everyone always seems to be watching.
He took a deep breath. ‘Prepare to move out,’ he cried. ‘We’re turning around.’
They rode hard, retracing their steps, Corban at their head. Craf had returned, reporting that the warband was heading due north, straight towards them.
He sent Coralen and a handful of Jehar back to watch the enemy, Storm loping beside her, as Craf had collapsed exhausted upon Brina’s saddle and refused to fly another handspan.
He had asked Fech to scout for them, but the raven refused, which annoyed him. Here I am, the chosen avatar of Elyon, the Bright Star; the high captain of the Ben-Elim listens to me, and yet a scruffy old raven refuses me. Apparently Fech was explaining something vital to Brina. For once she did not overrule the bird, but sat there quietly, just nodding her head. She had the book in her hands, the one that she had been teaching him from. It lay open across her saddle.
He stared at the book. The giant’s book from Dun Carreg, full of their histories and lore. And of their magic. Brina would have clipped him around the ear for calling it that, but that was how he thought of it. He remembered Vonn’s confession that he had stolen it from his da, Evnis, and then how Brina and Heb had taught him from it. When was the last time I even thought about that? Or Brina? I have just abandoned her. At least Cywen was with Brina. In fact, she seemed to be spending almost every waking hour close to the healer. I need to see more of Cywen, too. I ride hundreds of leagues to find her, and when I do, we hardly share two sentences.
Corban sighed. It seemed that being the Bright Star meant sacrifices. ‘Fine, have it your way,’ Corban said to Fech. ‘I’ll not be forgetting your helpfulness, though.’
‘Sarcasm won’t help,’ Fech squawked.
‘Bribery usually works,’ Cywen leaned in her saddle and whispered to him.
Corban considered. ‘Fech, the next thing that Storm catches, I’ll let you have its slimy bits all to yourself.’
Fech cocked his head at Corban. ‘Agreed. Fly soon,’ he croaked.
‘Good.’ Corban kicked his horse on, annoyed at Fech and just wanting to be alone, if even for a few moments without some decision or another needing to be made. He cleared the front of the warband, where Meical, Tukul and Gar were riding, Balur and his daughter Ethlinn striding beside them. He clicked his tongue and Shield opened his stride, pulling ahead into an open space. Corban leaned forward, patting Shield’s neck; the horse snorting with pleasure.
I’ve missed you, boy.
He looked back over his shoulder at the warband spread behind him, the bulk of giants mingled with the grim-faced Jehar. How did I end up here? Leading a warband, hailed as the champion of Elyon? I’m not champion of anything. And why would Elyon, maker of all, choose me? It doesn’t make sense.
And yet Corban knew it was more than the mad delusions of a handful of fanatical warriors. Meical was one of the Ben-Elim. Corban had seen him in the Otherworld, transformed with white wings and eyes that blazed, but still most definitely Meical. And more than that, he had seen Asroth. Spoken with him. Asroth had been in no doubt that Corban was Elyon’s chosen, had been quite prepared to cut Corban’s heart out. He shuddered at the memory, a faint echo of the terror that had filled him.
Asroth wants me dead.
Hooves drummed louder and he turned to see Meical spurring his mount to join him. Gar and Tukul rode with him, Balur jogging beside them.
Corban sighed and slowed a little, dropping back to them.
Here it comes.
‘What are we doing?’ Meical asked him.
‘Giving ourselves space – time. I would not throw us into battle without thought.’
‘Time is something we don’t have,’ Meical said. ‘Asroth is moving. He has been planning for this war for hundreds of years, and now he is striking. We do not have the time to ride back and forth like this. You must lead us.’
‘That is what I am trying to do.’
‘No, you are hesitating, undecided, and it will achieve nothing.’
Corban felt a flash of anger at Meical’s words, mostly because he knew they were true. His eyes flickered across the others, all watching him keenly.
‘We should turn and fight. Ride through Rhin’s warband,’ Meical told him.
‘And how many of our own would die? It is not a decision I would lightly make.’
‘Aye, well, decisions must be made, and they all have their consequences. You chose to ride south, and that means riding through the heartland of your enemy. It means blood being shed.’
‘That is what I am worried about,’ Corban muttered. ‘Your blood? Their blood?’ He gestured at the few hundred following behind them.
Meical sighed. ‘Corban, this is the God-War. It is inevitable that oceans of blood will be spilt by the time it is over. All that matters is that Asroth is defeated. So, yes, I am prepared to see my blood shed, your blood, and the blood of all those riding with us to achieve that aim. It is all that matters.’
Corban thought about that a while, looking back at the faces who would follow him blindly into battle and beyond – into death – if he required it of them.
‘You’re wrong,’ he said eventually. ‘There is more to this than victory or defeat. I will not throw lives away. They matter. My heart broke when my da was slain, and it broke again in Murias when my mam died in my arms.’ He paused, willed the tremor in his voice to pass. ‘And it has broken for every friend that has died in between. Yet I am but one man, surrounded here by hundreds, each with kin, with loved ones. Balur – who is dear to you here? Who would you give your life to save?’
The giant looked surprised, then frowned, his already creased face wrinkling into a place of deep valleys. ‘Ethlinn, my daughter,’ he rumbled.
‘And you, Tukul? Who would you give your life to save?’
‘You,’ Tukul replied without hesitation. He shrugged. ‘Every soul here.’ His eyes fixed on Gar. ‘Most of all, my son.’
A gentle smile crept across Gar’s lips.
‘Every one of us here has those dear to them, hearts that would grieve at their deaths. We do fight for a cause. Against a great evil. But I also fight to save those I love. So I will not throw away their lives unnecessarily.’
‘Admirable sentiments,’ Meical said, though he looked more confused than understanding. ‘Nevertheless, in this case, your sentiment is delaying action, and that will have a worse result – most likely all of us dead, eventually, and Asroth reigning over the Banished Lands. You are our leader. Lead us.’
Corban scowled. Meical shook his head in despair and dropped back, Balur and Tukul following him. Corban’s thoughts churned. Eventually he looked over at Gar.
‘I don’t know what to do, Gar,’ he said. ‘I’m scared.’ He remembered making a similar confession to Gar in a meadow below Dun Carreg, about his fear of having been bullied by Rafe. He almost laughed at the thought of it. It feels like a lifetime ago, yet here I am, still scared. Just scared of something else, that’s all.
‘All men feel fear,’ Gar said.
You’ve told me that before.
‘I know. It’s what we do about it that counts.’
Gar smiled at him.
‘This is different,’ Corban said. ‘I’m not scared of what may happen to me. I’m scared of getting people killed.’
‘Fear is fear,’ Gar shrugged. ‘It will disable you if you let it; freeze you, crush you.’
‘What would you do in my place?’
‘Fight. We have no choice. Try and go around, they’ll pick up our trail and chase us across Narvon. Sooner or later we’ll find someone else in front of us that wants a fight. W
hen that happens you don’t want three hundred men with swords at our back.’
They rode on, the sun sinking, the mountains that marked the border with Benoth looming closer. As the sun was melting into the horizon they came upon a thick stretch of woodland, to the east a fast-flowing river, to the west a gentle hill swathed with pine and spruce. An idea started to form in Corban’s mind. He stared back at the woods, remembering passing through them. A few leagues deep, and beyond them the village they had passed through. Can’t lead Rhin’s warband onto that village. He raised his hand and reined in Shield, the warband rippling to a halt behind him.
Meical’s right, I can’t just lead this warband winding all across the Banished Lands. And it is a warband; warbands are for war, sooner or later we will have to fight.
He turned and stood in his saddle, staring long and hard at the terrain about them.
‘We’ll make camp here,’ he called out, ‘and on the morrow this is where we’ll fight and crush Rhin’s warband.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
UTHAS
Uthas paused and gazed ahead. It was late in the day and the sun was sinking behind hills to the west. The mountain cliffs that had shadowed the pass they’d been marching through had gentled to pine-shrouded slopes, and beside them a white-foamed river carved a valley, widening into the green meadows of a flood-plain only half a league ahead.
‘Narvon,’ Calidus said beside him.
‘Aye. Once it was Benoth, as were all of the western realms.’
They moved on. Before them Nathair rode his draig, the lumbering beast scattering stone and gravel with each footfall, pine cones falling from shaking trees. Alcyon marched beside Nathair, a handful of the Kadoshim spread about them. Calidus rode close behind. His eyes were never far from Nathair.
He does not trust him, yet. Nathair had given no sign of rebellion, had ridden mostly in silence every day, any conversation he did participate in was usually with Alcyon. Time will be the judge. He will have to act upon his new oath soon enough.
The Kadoshim and Benothi were strung behind them: over a thousand men and women lending their strength pulling the wains. It had been hard going through the mountain passes, Kadoshim massed around each wain’s wheel, straining to turn them across the ancient and pitted road and through deep banks of wind-piled snow. They had made it, though, and now they were moving ever downhill, the road smoother and wider with every league.
