by John Gwynne
‘Again,’ Brina said.
‘Lasair. Uisce. Talamh. Aer.’
‘Good,’ Brina said.
Good! That’s the first time she’s used that word and aimed it at me. Cywen couldn’t keep the smile off her face. She’d been officially titled as Brina’s apprentice for over two moons now, spring turning to summer as they travelled through the realm of Narvon.
After the battle with Rhin’s warband in the north they had encountered little resistance. An occasional skirmish, but even then only between Coralen’s scouts and small bands of Rhin’s warriors. No one chose to stand against the whole warband, mostly in Cywen’s opinion because their warband consisted of Jehar, Benothi giants and a wolven. No one in their right mind would willingly choose to fight us, unless we were actively threatening their hearth and home, or they numbered in the thousands. Also, most of the villages were stripped of warriors of fighting age – most had gone to Owain’s summons and ridden to war against Ardan.
Some had even joined them. After seeing what the Kadoshim had done to the survivors of the village in the north, Corban had insisted on riding into each village that they passed to warn them. If it was a fortified town he would ride to its gates under the truce of a rowan branch and tell those gathered on the walls of what followed behind them. Corban had told Cywen that it was to give them a chance. Knowledge is power, Cy. At least, that’s what Brina always told me, and she’s usually right.
Many distrusted and disbelieved. Some didn’t. Corban offered them the opportunity of riding with his warband, much to Meical’s disgust. Over the course of their journey through Narvon the warband had swelled, numbering now around four hundred.
‘You’ve a gift for language, I have to say,’ Brina interrupted her thoughts. ‘You’re learning this much quicker than your brother ever did.’ The healer was sitting with her book open across her lap.
‘Can I see that?’ Cywen asked Brina.
‘Why?’ Brina asked.
‘I like letters,’ Cywen said with a shrug. It was true. When her mam had taught her and Corban, back in their kitchen in Dun Carreg, letters had always been Cywen’s favourite subject, while the histories had been Corban’s. She’d always thought Corban just liked hearing about ancient battles.
‘Here, then,’ Brina said, a little reluctantly. ‘Be careful – it’s very old, many of the pages are brittle. And only look at the first half – that deals with what concerns you.’
The cover was thick leather, dark and cracked. She opened it carefully, each page inside a waxy parchment filled with giant runes. Sometimes it was clear that more than one hand had written in the book, the writing changing from spidery scrawl to firm, broad strokes and back again. There were many words that Cywen recognized, some from her lessons with her mam, others from her recent teaching with Brina. Teaching me to be an Elemental. Who’d have thought? The idea excited Cywen and she had taken to it well enough. Already she had made a spark appear, on her first attempt only yesterday. Admittedly it had fizzled out almost as soon as it appeared, but Cywen put that down to her own shock at seeing it appear as much as anything else, and Brina had been exceptionally pleased.
‘You see, there is so much to learn before you can really start to put the theory into practice,’ Brina said. ‘Basic commands are simpler – like the one for fire that you tried yesterday. But if you want to shape your commands, exercise some kind of real control – like when we summoned the mist from the river – a mastery of the language is essential. We didn’t just make mist from the river, we directed it across a meadow and up an embankment onto the old giants’ road. That wasn’t easy.’
‘Mist scary,’ Craf croaked mournfully.
He was sitting beside Brina, every now and then his beak darting into the ground and coming back up with a wriggling worm. His wing was healed now, fully recovered from the attack by the hawk, but he was a different bird. He was forlorn all the time, his mischievous comments replaced with melancholy. And he never flew; Cywen saw him often looking nervously to the skies. A ten-night or so after the attack Corban had asked Craf to help in the scouting, but Craf had become a trembling wreck at the mention of it. Corban had obviously felt so sorry for the bird that he had let it go, and not asked again. Now Craf always stayed close to Brina, usually perched on her saddle. He misses Fech. So do I, strangely enough. And I think if I was him I’d be scared too. She had often seen a winged shape riding the currents high above them. It looked suspiciously hawk-like. It would make sense for Nathair and Calidus to track us, so it could well be the hawk that killed Fech.
Brina leaned forward and scratched Craf’s neck.
Farrell appeared and sat down with them, throwing something to Craf as he did so. Something slimy, judging by the noises Craf made as he consumed it.
‘T a s t y ,’ Craf croaked by way of thanks.
‘You’re welcome,’ Farrell said. He unslung his war-hammer and placed it on the ground beside him, patting its iron head lovingly, a habit that Cywen had noticed he did almost every evening. Farrell had taken to spending his nights with them – Dath was always out scouting, and Corban was permanently busy.
It’s funny how we all group together – the Benothi giants are always together, the Jehar, though they seem to be in two camps – Tukul’s lot, and those who rode with Nathair, led now by Akar. And us, a small remnant of Ardan. Perhaps Farrell takes some comfort in being around us – we are as close to home as he can find in this patchwork warband.
Pages passed and Cywen turned them quicker, until about halfway through the book something changed. A new hand took over the writing, for one thing, the runes taking on an elegant flow. Also diagrams started appearing, strange designs, and the giant runes changed from flowing sentences into something more fitful, appearing almost like lists. Cywen saw the giantish word for blood – fuil – and further down the page namhaid.
She felt her eyes drawn to the pages, almost as if she was sinking into them.
‘What does namhaid mean? Is it enemy?’
‘Hey,’ Brina snapped, making her jump. ‘I told you not to go so far.’ Brina snatched the book back. Cywen held on a moment, then thought better of it and let go.
‘What’s wrong with looking at that part?’ she muttered.
‘First of all, because I told you not to,’ Brina said acerbically, ‘and secondly, I don’t say things without good reason. I’m too old to start wasting my breath.’ She scowled at Cywen.
‘Too old,’ Craf muttered.
Brina’s scowl gravitated to Craf.
‘Sorry,’ Cywen and Craf said together.
‘Apology accepted. Just don’t do it again.’
‘I won’t,’ Cywen said. Not when you’re sitting right next to me, anyway. She was already desperate to have another look.
‘Is that Vonn’s book?’ Farrell asked. ‘The one he took from his da?’
‘It is,’ Brina said curtly.
‘Can I have a look at it?’ Farrell asked.
‘What, with your big sausage-fingers. Absolutely not,’ Brina snapped.
‘All right,’ Farrell muttered. He sounded hurt. Cywen caught him snatching a glance at his hand. He wiggled his fingers.
Cywen stood and stretched. The camp sprawled about them, nestled between the fork of two streams. There were no fires, there had been none since they had fought the warband in the north, and with the supplies of brot and the summer nights they didn’t really need one. It would still be nice, though. Brina had occasionally set a fire and boiled a pot of water. When Corban or Tukul had reminded her that they were in enemy territory and not lighting fires she had told them it was for making poultices and informed them that if they didn’t want anyone to know where they were, to kill that damned hawk hovering above them all the time. They went away shame-faced – it wasn’t as if they hadn’t tried, but even the most skilled archer couldn’t shoot that high. Brina had always managed to make her and Cywen a mug of tea whenever she boiled a pot, though. Cywen wasn’t complaining. Or t
elling.
Cywen could see Corban skirting the horses’ picket line with Meical and Tukul. As she watched a handful of riders cantered into the camp, heading for the makeshift paddocks by the stream. Coralen rode at their head, Storm pacing silently beside her. Further out Cywen could just make out the shadowy figures of Jehar and giants circling the camp, over a score on guard duty at all times.
Since Brina had asked Cywen to become her assistant Cywen had stopped feeling so useless – mostly she helped Brina in the tending of ailments, ranging from the severely battle-wounded to mundane injuries incurred during the day-to-day of a small host on the march. Sprained ankles, headaches, stomach upsets, stung by something unpleasant, usually with roots or wings.
Cywen liked it. She was kept busy, which was important; spare time usually ended up with her brooding on the death of her mam. And Brina was a good teacher.
As long as I learn something the first time she tells me. Apparently she doesn’t like repeating herself.
Sometimes Brina’s abrasiveness just became too much. At times like that Cywen liked to throw her knives at something.
Today is one of those days.
She walked a few steps into the undergrowth that surrounded them and was abruptly enveloped by a stand of ash and elm. Brina was still close by, within earshot. She drew one of her knives from the belt across her chest and sighted at a tree. She pulled the blade back to her ear, held her breath and threw. It connected with a satisfying thunk. Without thinking she pulled another knife and buried it in the trunk a finger-span from the first.
She sensed a presence and looked around, saw a tall figure half-hidden behind a bush. She blinked, realizing it was a giant. Not quite big enough for a fully grown giant. A giantling. She stared, and hesitantly the giantling stepped out from behind the bush and took a step towards her. ‘You do that well,’ the giantling said, her speech faltering, almost clumsy.
‘It’s just practice,’ Cywen shrugged, then put another knife in the trunk beside the other two. ‘I’m Cywen,’ she said.
‘I know. The Bright Star’s sister.’
Something about that made Cywen scowl internally.
‘I am Laith,’ the giantling said. She took a few steps closer, reaching inside a leather vest and pulling out a knife. Cywen’s knife.
‘I thought it was you,’ Cywen said.
‘Aye. Balur told me to return it and to ask your forgiveness.’ She stopped beside Cywen, holding the knife out to her. It looked very small in her flat palm.
‘Why did you take it?’
‘You threw it at me,’ Laith said defensively. Then she smiled. ‘I like things that have been made – it is a good knife. A bit small –’ she shrugged – ‘but unusual. The balance is different.’
‘My da made it for throwing,’ Cywen said. ‘The weight is concentrated in the tip.’
‘Ahh, made for throwing. That explains it.’ She held the knife close to her eyes, examining it with fresh interest. ‘I thought that. Your da is a smith?’ she asked Cywen.
‘Aye.’ Was. She threw another knife, imagining the trunk was Nathair.
‘I am a smith,’ Laith said with pride, standing straighter and puffing her chest out. She took up a lot of room. She turned Cywen’s knife between thick fingers. ‘Your da is good. Is he here?’
‘He’s dead,’ Cywen said and drew and threw another knife.
‘Oh.’ Laith hung her head. ‘My da is dead, too.’
Cywen paused and looked at Laith. In the twilight of dusk she looked more like something carved from stone, her limbs long, muscles striated like rope, though not slab-thick like Balur and the other adult Benothi.
‘Keep the knife,’ Cywen said with a smile. ‘Though it looks a little small for you.’
‘I cannot. Balur would . . .’ She looked wistfully at the blade in her palm.
She looks like a bairn with a present on her nameday.
‘You are a smith – keep it to use as a pattern – make another; bigger. More suited to you.’
‘You would have to teach me to throw,’ Laith said. ‘I cannot do that.’ She nodded at the tree trunk, now studded with half a dozen throwing knives.
‘I’ll teach you. It’s not as hard as it looks, especially when the knife is made right.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Farrell said from behind them.
‘That’s because you’re impatient. And you’ve got sausage fingers,’ Cywen said.
‘Oh, and the giant hasn’t,’ Farrell muttered.
‘Look, like this,’ Cywen said. She gave Laith a demonstration, breaking down the action. Grip with two fingers and thumb. Arm loose, back to the ear, sight, breathe, throw, snapping the wrist. Laith tried it and threw the knife in her hand. It tinged off of the trunk, spinning into the undergrowth. With a gasp of horror she ran to find it, trampling undergrowth as she searched in circles. The look of relief on her face when she found it was immense.
‘You did it wrong,’ Cywen said. ‘Look. The blade strokes your ear – not too close, don’t draw blood.’
Laith stood next to her, set her feet as Cywen had, gripped the knife and pulled it back to her ear.
‘No. Like this,’ Cywen said. She walked around the giantling and moved her arm to the correct position, having to stand on tiptoes to reach it. Cywen stepped away and saw that Farrell was standing close by.
‘I always wondered how you did that,’ he said.
‘You could have just asked.’ To Laith she said, ‘Try it now.’
Laith’s arm sprang forwards, and before the knife had connected with the trunk Cywen knew she’d thrown well.
Laith grinned and ran to the tree, Cywen and Farrell following.
‘Oh,’ Laith said.
The knife had almost disappeared, only a finger’s width of the hilt protruding from the trunk.
Laith tried to pull it out, but couldn’t get a grip on the hilt. Farrell tried. He did manage to get a hold of it, but it was stuck fast.
‘Short of chopping the tree down, you’ll not be seeing that blade again,’ he declared.
Laith hung her head unhappily.
‘Here,’ Cywen said, working one of her other blades free. ‘Take this one as your pattern. When we find a forge, make some of your own. Until then try not to bury it in something inanimate.’
Laith smiled, her mood turning like a summer storm.
‘Though I don’t know when we’ll ever get to use a forge again.’
‘There’ll be a forge at Dun Crin. Or Drassil,’ Farrell said. ‘Wherever we’re going.’
‘Balur One-Eye says that we will see the Darkwood on the morrow,’ Laith said quietly.
‘The Darkwood,’ Cywen breathed. She remembered it none too fondly. It was where Ronan had been slain. They had been courting. And he had been slain by Morcant.
‘Aye. Time for the Bright Star to choose our way,’ Laith said.
‘What’s going on here?’ a voice said. The three of them spun around to see Coralen approaching, wrapped in her wolven pelt and claws as usual. A few of her scouts followed behind her – Dath and two Jehar, both women, one young, one old.
Coralen’s band of scouts had grown to thirty or forty the deeper they had moved into Narvon; even some of the villagers that had joined them in the north had become part of Coralen’s wolven pack, as they had taken to being called.
‘Cywen’s giving a lesson in knife-throwing,’ Farrell said. ‘You’re looking fine this evening, by the way,’ he added.
‘I look like an unwashed wolven,’ Coralen snorted, then ignored Farrell, looking between Cywen and the tree trunk as Cywen pulled her knives free.
‘That’s something I’d like to learn,’ Coralen said.
‘I’d be happy to show you,’ Cywen told her. The two girls had not spoken much since travelling together. Cywen had thought Coralen aloof and disdainful. And in truth she was also a little jealous of her – she was so capable with a blade, could best many in sparring and hold her own with most of the others.
‘What would you like in return?’ Coralen asked her. ‘A trade.’
‘Teach me how to use that,’ Cywen said, pointing to Coralen’s sword.
‘All right then,’ Coralen said and held her arm out. They gripped and shook forearms.
I like her a bit more, already.
‘Brina, I’ve a message for you from Corban. He says he would like to speak with you.’ Coralen paused.
‘Oh did he now,’ Brina snapped. ‘Wasn’t so long ago I was teaching him what end of a broom to use, and now he’s sending for me.’
‘He asked me to say please,’ Coralen said, smiling. ‘He was very insistent that I didn’t forget that bit.’
‘Ahh, well then. Maybe I will go and see him. Cywen, come on.’
‘Me?’
‘Of course. You are my assistant, so come and assist.’
Corban was sitting beside one of the streams with his boots off and his feet in the water. Coralen turned to go but Corban called out to her.
‘Stay a while, Coralen, if you would.’
She hesitated a moment, then muttered, ‘I can spare a few moments, I suppose.’
‘You’ll kill the poor fish doing that,’ Brina said to Corban as she sat beside him, pointing at his bare feet in the stream. Craf appeared beside Brina and hopped up onto her leg.
‘Ahh, Brina, I’ve missed you.’
‘Missed me? I’ve been no more than a hundred paces away from you for the last two years.’
‘You know what I mean,’ he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing her tightly. He kissed her on the cheek. Cywen thought she saw the edges of Brina’s mouth twitch.
I’d be too scared to do that to her. Dark shapes appeared on the far side of the stream, Storm taking form first, her bone-coloured fur seeming to glow in the last rays of dusk. Buddai ran beside her, a brindle shadow. Cywen was shocked at how much bigger than him Storm had grown. Buddai was tall, his back as high as Cywen’s waist, but Storm was a head taller than that, and broader and longer besides. They tumbled in meadow grass together, nipping at each other’s fur.
‘You wouldn’t think we were knee-deep in a God-War, looking at them,’ Corban said.
