Ruin

by John Gwynne

  ‘Ready to move,’ Alben said close by. ‘We are to investigate the ruins. Our orders are to find out why the Vin Thalun are here. No killing.’ He shrugged. ‘Not until I say so.’ Men grinned around him.

  They hate the Vin Thalun almost as much as I do.

  Alben drew a circle in the mud with a stick. ‘This is Balara.’ He drew a smaller circle at its centre. ‘This is the heart of the fortress, a tower and foundations where we found the Vin Thalun fighting-pits.’

  That made Maquin snarl, an involuntary reaction.

  Another line from the outer wall to the tower. ‘This is the main route in, most likely the bulk of the Vin Thalun will be contained within this area.’ He drew a line circling the area between the gates and the central tower.

  ‘That’s all we know about the fortress.’ He shrugged. ‘We will search first. Perhaps that is all we’ll do. We may leave without drawing blood. That decision will be made later, and by me alone. Do you understand me?’

  Alben looked around the half-circle of men, held each one’s gaze a few moments.

  ‘Good. Then let’s move.’

  They followed Alben up the slope. The trees thinned and the men broke out into open meadow, the weak light of a new moon and stars gilding the hillside and ruin towering above them in silver.

  The main gateway, where they had seen the wain enter, lay to the east. Alben led them in a wide loop, eventually ending up beneath the western stretch of crumbled and ruined wall.

  As they climbed across huge boulder-sized blocks, a scattering of rock dislodged and fell, rattling loud in the dark. They paused – ready for an alarm to be raised – when none came, they went on.

  They entered the ruins, slipping from building to building, the flicker of firelight ahead. They edged closer, fires burning in iron-wrought bowls edging a wide flagstoned street. At the end of it a broken tower loomed, an orange glow pulsing from a wide-open doorway at its base. Vin Thalun stood guard about the tower, four that Maquin could see. The wain they had seen arrive earlier was sitting in the shadows, the auroch nowhere to be seen.

  Alben moved towards the tower, Maquin and the others following. They circled wide again, approaching the tower from the north side. Creeping up to one of the windows, Alben beckoned Maquin to join him.

  Inside, the tower consisted of one huge circular room, a broken stairwell spiralling upwards about its edge. A fire-pit burned in its centre, the remains of a spitted carcass crusting black. Vin Thalun were scattered about the room, eating, singing quietly, drinking. A score maybe, no more. Alben pointed. Maquin squinted, not seeing anything at first, then he noticed the iron spike hammered into the ground. Two thick chains were attached to it, trailing off into the shadows beneath the stairwell. Two hulking figures crouched in the darkness, barely visible, but Maquin knew them in an instant.

  Lykos’ giants.

  Alben tapped his shoulder and they stole away from the window, back to the others grouped in the darkness. Alben whispered an explanation of what he and Maquin had just seen.

  ‘Are they the giants that Fidele spoke of?’ Alben asked Maquin.

  ‘Aye. A female and a bairn. They are Lykos’ giants.’

  ‘Why are they here?’

  ‘Why does he have them?’

  The questions started to snowball.

  ‘It does not matter,’ Maquin interrupted. ‘All that matters is that they are precious to Lykos and that they are within our grasp.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Alben asked him.

  ‘That we take them from him.’

  ‘Eight of us against thirty, near enough,’ Alben said. He was looking at Maquin with his head cocked to one side.

  ‘It can be done,’ Maquin said, returning his gaze. ‘The guards, by stealth – that’s six, evens the odds a little.’

  ‘And the score in that tower?’ Alben said.

  ‘I’m thinking you have a plan for that already.’

  Alben stared at him a moment longer, lips twitching.

  ‘How would we get the giants back to Ripa?’ someone asked.

  ‘The same way they were brought here – under guard,’ Maquin said. ‘We would need to kill every man here. Word cannot reach Lykos. It would be a difficult journey back to Ripa, but there are enough of us to guard them, and you know the forest paths. We would slip back into Ripa as planned, under cover of darkness.’

  ‘And if the giants do not cooperate.’

  ‘They are mother and child. I saw with my own eyes that she will do anything to protect her bairn.’ Maquin shrugged, a ripple in the dark. ‘All we must do is convince her that it is better for her bairn’s health that she cooperate rather than fight us.’

  Alben stared at him long moments, then he nodded.

  Maquin crouched below the tower window. Alben had left one warrior with Maquin – Valent, one of Krelis’ men, a veteran of many sea battles with the Vin Thalun before the peace of Aquilus – and taken the others into the darkness.

  ‘I will deal with the guards. Wait for my signal,’ Alben had said as the shadows claimed him. Maquin had not bothered to ask what the signal would be.

  I’ll know it when it happens.

  So Maquin and Valent waited, listening to the murmur of conversation filtering out of the window. Someone was complaining of the plunder that they were going to miss out on when Ripa fell.

  A loud shout, the signal Maquin had been waiting for, followed closely by the clash of iron. Inside the tower twenty Vin Thalun leaped to their feet, drawing swords and rushing to the tower’s wide doorway.

  Maquin shared a look with Valent, who reached for his sword hilt. Maquin shook his head. ‘It’ll be knife-work first, close and bloody.’ Valent nodded and then Maquin was climbing through the window into the tower.

  No one saw them, all eyes were fixed upon the main door where shadowy figures fought. No one except the giantess. Her eyes met Maquin’s, small and dark in a shadow-haunted face. She made no sound, no movement, just watched him as he slipped behind a Vin Thalun warrior. Maquin ripped his eyes away from her, though he felt her gaze still upon him as he grabbed the Vin Thalun, one hand clamping across a mouth, the other sawing his knife across the warrior’s throat.

  Close by Valent slipped his knife between a Vin Thalun’s ribs.

  Maquin slew another before they were heard. Men peeled away from the doorway, where bodies crammed the entrance, already corpses snaring feet.

  Alben is holding them in the doorway, confining them where their numbers will be useless.

  Half a dozen men at least came at him and Valent. Maquin strode forwards to meet the attack, leaving Valent to protect the giants.

  He kicked at the blackened carcass spitted above the fire-pit, sending it crashing into a Vin Thalun, knocking him to the ground, saw one of the others hesitate.

  ‘It . . . it’s the Old Wolf,’ the Vin Thalun cried, a flash of doubt sweeping his face, his cry loud enough for others to hear. There was a pause amongst them and Maquin took advantage, hurling a knife which buried itself with a dull crack up to the hilt in another Vin Thalun’s forehead.

  Maquin drew his sword.

  The Vin Thalun circled around the fire-pit, slowly.

  Mistake. Should have rushed me.

  He moved to the right, sidestepped a hesitant blow, and hacked at the man’s ribs, felt bones break, ducked the sword-swing of another warrior, kicked the first into the fire-pit in an explosion of flame, pivoted, took the next sword blow overhead with his own blade, stepped in close, iron grating sparks, and punched his knife through leather into a belly, ripped it sideways as he pulled away, intestines spilling into a steaming heap in his wake. The recent wound in his belly began to throb, an ache deep within.

  A quick glance saw Valent standing before the giants, giving ground to three Vin Thalun. Maquin saw the warrior he had kicked the spitted carcass onto push it away and begin to rise from the ground. The main doorway was empty, bodies piled across it, the clash of iron telling of battle in the
road outside. There were no others left within the tower. In two long strides Maquin was upon the man trying to rise, kicked him back to the ground and stabbed his sword into the soft flesh of his throat.

  Valent went down, a gaping wound between his neck and shoulder. His attacker stood above him, sword-arm rising and falling into Valent’s skull, an explosion of blood and bone. Another Vin Thalun stood close by, one arm hanging limp at his side, blood dripping from his fingertips. The third one was approaching the two giants, their bulk still huddled beneath the spiral staircase.

  Maquin ran at them.

  He hamstrung the one with the injured arm, heard him drop to the ground with a thud as he threw himself into the warrior that had slain Valent, buried his knife to the hilt in the man’s armpit, left it there, spun away and staggered on towards the man now attacking the two unarmed giants. He was hacking at the giantess, who was crouching before the bairn, her teeth bared in a snarl, using the chain she was shackled with to block his sword blows. Maquin saw she had not been entirely successful, blood running from a gash in her forearm, another from her calf.

  The Vin Thalun heard Maquin’s approach and turned, swinging his sword, sending Maquin’s stabbing thrust wide, and they crunched together, wrestling, Maquin trying to break free, make room to swing his blade. They tripped over the giant chain and crashed to the ground, rolling on the stone floor. Pain spiked in Maquin’s body, his old wound screaming a complaint.

  No time for pain. He ground his teeth.

  Maquin lost the grip on his sword, butted his head forwards, felt something crunch. The grip about him loosened and he reached for the last knife in his boot. A punch in the kidneys took his breath away, pain exploding in his back, then an arm was around his throat. He bucked, writhed, threw his head backwards but nothing changed the iron grip around his neck. He clawed at the arm, feeling his strength fading, a dark nimbus seeping into the fringes of his vision, white dots exploding in his head. Something gripped one of his boots and he saw the warrior he’d hamstrung dragging himself across the floor, leaving a trail of blood. I will not die.

  Panic swept him and gave a last burst of adrenalin. His body spasmed, every muscle and sinew straining, his face purple, tendons thick as rope bulging in his neck, but still the grip about his throat held.

  He slumped, feeling the strength flowing out of him, somewhere distantly realized with mild surprise that this was the end.

  Fidele . . .

  His body jerked suddenly, shook like a straw doll, then the grip around his throat was gone and he was choking, sucking in great, ragged breaths. Behind him a man screamed.

  The warrior gripping his ankles stared up at him, then let go and reached for a sword.

  Too late.

  Maquin kicked him in the face, pulled his last knife from his boot and stabbed the man through the eye. He spasmed, legs kicking, then went slack.

  Maquin rolled over, saw the warrior who had almost killed him caught by the giantess. She’d wrapped the length of her chain about his throat and was pulling tight. The man’s face was a grey-purple explosion of veins, bulging eyes and swelling tongue. There was a popping sound, vertebrae in his neck snapping, and his head suddenly lolled, eyes glazing. The giantess continued to pull, muscles bulging, rippling along her forearms like snakes in a sack. With a tearing sound Maquin saw the flesh about the chain begin to fray, then tear, blood seeping, then exploding in a violent jet as the giantess gave one last savage wrench and the man’s head ripped free.

  She stepped away, her eyes fixed on Maquin, letting the Vin Thalun’s corpse flop to the ground, and sitting beside her son, who gripped her hand tightly.

  Maquin backed away, picked up his sword, still watching the giants, then headed for the tower doorway, stopping to retrieve his knives on the way.

  Alben stepped into the room. Blood sheeted his forehead and his sword was red to the hilt. ‘The giants?’

  ‘Still alive.’ Maquin pointed to the shadows beneath the stairwell.

  They stood and stared a long while at the giants, who returned their gaze with wariness.

  She saved my life. The thought left Maquin feeling uncomfortable. But then, I saved hers. She was still bleeding from her wounds.

  Alben offered her a flask of water.

  ‘Drink, and clean your wounds,’ Alben said. The giantess stared unblinking back at him. Alben tried again. ‘Deach agus glan do gortuithe.’

  Giantish.

  The giantess frowned, then reached out and took the water skin. She sniffed it, took a tentative sip, then gave it to her bairn. He took a deep drink, then poured water over his mother’s wounds, washing the blood away.

  ‘I can tend your wounds, bind them for you,’ Alben said.

  ‘Cad ba mhaite leat?’ the giantess said. Her lips twisted in a sneer.

  ‘Me troid ar son an realta geal. Sbhilt anois. Ach ni feidir liom a leagtar t’ saor in aisce – mo namhaid stor. Ni mor duit teacht liom,’ Alben replied.

  ‘Ni feidir liom,’ the giantess growled, her voice a basal rumble. ‘Bhaineann me go dti an aingeal dorcha.’

  ‘Sin deireadh leis. Ar m’anam tar liom go sÌoch-nta agus beidh t’ sln. NÌ dhÈanfar aon dochar duit,’ Alben replied.

  Maquin did not know what they were saying, but he saw Alben’s gaze shift to the giant bairn, then back to the giantess.

  She stood suddenly, her body hard and ridged as a slab of granite. Men behind Alben reached for their swords, but Alben did not flinch.

  ‘Tiocfaimid, ach is eagal dom go bhfuil gealltanas tugtha agat nach fÈidir leat a chomhlÌonadh,’ the giantess said.

  Her voice resonated in Maquin’s chest.

  ‘Time will be the judge,’ Alben said. He drew his sword and struck the chains on the post, shattering them.

  ‘We are moving out, now.’ Alben turned and strode away. The giantess and her bairn followed.

  ‘What did you say to them?’ Maquin asked.

  Alben did not look at him as he marched from the tower.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CORALEN

  Coralen pulled on the oar, feeling muscles contract in her back and shoulders, her torso swaying forwards and back with the motion. It had been like learning to ride all over again, the rhythm of it at first strangely alien, the dip and lift of the oar, pulling against the resistance of the Afren’s dark waters, using the sway of her body to help not hinder, and on top of that, to do it in perfect time so as not to snare her oar in another rower’s.

  I’ve got it now, though.

  The first night after their escape from Uthandun Corban gathered all of the oarsmen from the eleven ships they had stolen, over three hundred men. He had repeated the offer he’d made during the raid – told them that they were free. He suggested that they row both for Corban and for themselves now, away from the pirates who had made them slaves, and be put ashore at a safer location.

  Some had demanded their freedom then and there. Corban had let them go, no more than a score of them, staggering into the gloom of the Darkwood. The rest had stayed.

  Many were close to death, weak and emaciated, but Coralen had been surprised to see the effect a mouthful of brot had upon most of them.

  Corban had asked one other thing from them and, more than anything else, that seemed to convince them of his sincerity.

  He asked them to train his own warband up as oarsmen.

  She’d received a lot of strange looks when she’d volunteered. She’d ignored them. Her body could cope with it, strong and supple after year upon year of sparring, though in truth after the first shift she’d spent at an oar her hands were blistered and weeping, and her back and shoulders were in agony. When she woke the next morning it was worse. By the third day she was getting used to it.

  The veteran rowers had accepted her presence quickly, especially when the Jehar started filling benches as well, at least half of them women. They had attacked rowing as if it was an enemy, with stony faces and determined stoicism. Harder to get used to, tho
ugh, were giants sitting on the oar-benches. Balur had been the first to try. The bench had creaked when he sat upon it, and the first time he and a few of his kin pulled at their oars the ship had listed so heavily the decks had taken water. It had taken some careful rearrangement of seating to balance the ship out.

  ‘We’re leaving the forest behind us.’ It was the small, dark-skinned man named Javed sitting on the bench across from her. His head was shaved clean, dark stubble shadowed his jaw, and he had more scars on his body than Coralen had ever seen. He was small framed, but his musculature had a wiry strength that Coralen recognized and respected, and he moved with a grace reminiscent of the Jehar that spoke of explosive power.

  ‘Aye,’ Coralen grunted. She’d not really mastered the art of talking and rowing yet.

  ‘Where exactly are you all going?’ Javed asked her.

  ‘Forwards,’ Coralen grunted. Everyone within the warband knew that they were travelling to Drassil, the city of tales, until recently something she’d thought of as exactly that: a tale. Now, though, it was just accepted. Coralen was aware that other people would not view it in the same way.

  ‘Strange company you keep,’ Javed observed.

  I suppose it is. Coralen didn’t think of it that way any more, much as she no longer viewed Drassil as a strange destination.

  A bell rang behind her, signalling the end of her shift on the bench. Smoothly she raised her oar, pulled it through its hole and shelved it. Javed gave her a mock-bow as she stood and filed along the aisle to the stairs that led to the top deck. She blinked in the sunlight and nodded to Farrell as he passed her to take his place at an oar. The deck was narrow, dominated by a single mast and furled sail, beyond it a raised deck where Dath stood helming the steering oar. Coralen walked to the ship’s rail and leaned out, looking downriver. More ships followed them, their small fleet.