Ruin

by John Gwynne

  Another silence, somehow deeper and denser than any that had preceded it.

  ‘So we get to fight the Vin Thalun if we stay with you?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Meical said quietly beside him.

  ‘Yes,’ Corban said loudly.

  ‘Good enough for me,’ someone yelled. There was a smattering of quiet laughter at that.

  ‘I cannot guarantee victory.’ Corban’s voice was rising now, echoing back from the ships moored along the river. ‘We may lose. We may all die.’

  How can I ask this of them? Is this what leaders do – ask their followers for everything and offer them nothing in return?

  He looked at the gathering spread before him and knew that if they had any chance against the armies that were coming they needed to unite. And it was on his shoulders to make them see that.

  ‘I have seen the evil that comes against us, and it is terrifying. If we do not stand against it, who will? There is only one promise that I can make to you . . .’ He felt a lump in his throat as he saw familiar faces staring back at him – Cywen, Dath, Farrell, Coralen, Balur One-Eye, Gar – people he cared for. People he may lose.

  What choice do we have?

  He put his hand upon his sword hilt.

  ‘I will be beside you every step of the way and I will fight until my last breath.’

  He shouted those last words, feeling passion swell in him like a dark wave. As he stepped down from the branch he was battered by a deafening roar from the crowd. Jehar and giants were brandishing their weapons in the air, cheering at the top of their lungs. And so were most of the others. The faces of oarsmen that had looked close to death only a few days ago, empty and listless, were now alive with passion.

  And so it begins.

  The marshlands were a flat, stinking, mosquito-infested wasteland. The river curled through it like a lethargic serpent, taking their eleven ships slowly eastwards. The oarsmen that remained all set to their shifts, and the ships moved ever closer to Drassil. Tukul and Meical had spoken to him, warned that such broken men could not be trusted and would need watching. But Corban disagreed.

  They were men – warriors – once. It was not their fault that they were enslaved. I believe there must be honour left among them. And while I may only offer an uncertain future – it’s at least better than the certain death they faced before. Besides, I know what a driving force hatred and revenge can be . . .

  Corban stood upon the raised rear deck of the lead ship, Dath at his side with one arm hooked around the steering oar. Kulla his shadow was loitering nearby.

  ‘We couldn’t have done this without you,’ Corban said to his friend.

  ‘I know.’ Dath grinned. ‘And I may remind you of those words.’

  ‘Dath is gifted in many ways,’ Kulla said. Dath blushed at that; Corban suppressed a smile.

  ‘But what would you expect,’ Kulla continued, ‘from one of the Bright Star’s closest friends?’

  Corban blushed this time, and Kulla beamed with pride at Dath.

  ‘We will have to leave this river soon,’ Meical said. ‘It flows through the south of Isiltir, almost to the doors of Mikil, Isiltir’s seat of power. Jael holds Isiltir, now, and Mikil is his. We cannot go that way. To reach Gramm’s hold we need to join one of the rivers that flows north, to the sea.’

  ‘And how exactly are we going to do that?’ Corban asked. ‘Pick up the ships and carry them across land?’

  Meical and Dath just smiled at him.

  With a huge splash and a spray of water that soaked him and a few hundred others, the first ship slid into the river. Corban didn’t mind; he was already soaked through with sweat. He stood on the bank, bent over with his hands on his knees and sucking in deep breaths. And he was grinning. They had managed to haul the first four ships out of the river and into the marshes. The horses had been unloaded from the three transporters and roped into teams, used to help pull the ships onto land. Then they’d begun the long portage across the spongy ground towards another river, rolling the ships across three or four masts like giant rollers, running them from back to front. The oarsmen taught them the most efficient technique for this, as they had been forced to do it many times by their Vin Thalun masters. Every man had helped, taking it in turns, a bizarre convoy of four ships rolling across the flat landscape. Benothi muscle had added considerably to their teams and the ships rolled across land surprisingly well.

  It was a journey of about two leagues.

  Not so far to walk, normally, but when you’re pulling a ship . . .

  They made their way back to the remaining ships and began the process all over again.

  ‘We’ve got a problem,’ Dath said to Corban. ‘Those transporters aren’t coming out of the river.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Their hulls are too deep. These galleys like the one we’ve been sailing upon, they’re shallow draughted – not much sits below the water. Those transporters, well, a third of the ship sits below the water. That’s fine in a wide, deep river, but we’ll never get them out. And even if we do, we won’t be able to roll them two leagues across land.’

  Corban put his head in his hands.

  They were sitting in a big circle, Corban surrounded by his growing council: Meical, Tukul, Brina and Gar, Balur One-Eye and Ethlinn, Dath, Cywen and Coralen – who seemed to be in each other’s company whenever Corban saw them – and two others had joined them, representatives of their new recruits. Javed and Atilius. Storm and Buddai were lying in the shade of a willow. Corban watched Javed, remembering the way he had fought Coralen. That had set a rage burning in Corban and it had taken all his will not to draw his sword and cut him down.

  Can I trust him? Someone so close to rage and violence?

  The honest answer was that he didn’t know, but the oarsmen had chosen Javed and Atilius as their representatives, so for now Corban chose to trust their choice.

  And I shall keep a close eye upon Javed.

  They had been discussing options. Corban was listening to Gar as he suggested dismantling the transporters and rebuilding them beside the new river.

  ‘Have you ever built a ship before? Sailed one?’ Javed asked Gar.

  ‘No. I was born in a desert,’ Gar said.

  ‘Hah,’ Javed barked a laugh, throwing his arms in the air.

  ‘It will not work,’ Dath told Gar glumly. ‘Apart from not having the tools to do the job without punching holes in the hull, the timbers would have to be caulked – sealed – or the ship would sink as soon as it sat in the water.’

  Voices spoke out at the same time, offering equally impossible solutions.

  ‘There is only one solution,’ Tukul spoke out, loud and commanding. ‘We must split up. One group takes the horses and rides through Isiltir to Gramm’s. The other group sails round the coast.’

  Corban frowned. That was the one answer that his mind kept on returning to, but he did not like it.

  ‘It would be dangerous,’ Cywen said.

  ‘What isn’t in these Banished Lands?’ Tukul snorted. ‘Besides, we did it before. We rode from Gramm’s, through Isiltir into Ardan to Dun Carreg. Then all the way to Dun Vaner. We rode like the wind, and the Jehar are hard to stop once they are in the saddle.’

  ‘The ships would reach Gramm’s a long time before the riders,’ Meical said. He sounded as if he was thinking out loud, rather than posing problems.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Tukul said with a proud grin.

  ‘Two horses a rider,’ Coralen said. ‘Ride one horse, rest the other.’

  ‘That would speed things up.’

  The conversation went on for a while, but eventually a silence fell and all heads turned to Corban.

  ‘It is the only workable answer,’ he said. ‘Though I don’t like the thought of us splitting up. All that is left is to decide who rides and who sails.’

  ‘The Jehar are the best riders,’ Brina said.

  ‘I will not leave Corban,’ Gar said automatically.

  �
��I will not ask you to,’ Tukul said, resting a hand upon his son’s shoulder. ‘But it should be mostly Jehar. Brina is right. We are the best riders, best equipped to get to Gramm’s quickly. I would ask that Coralen ride with us,’ Tukul said.

  ‘Why?’ Corban asked, not really liking that idea. Coralen frowned.

  ‘Because she is the best scout I’ve ever seen, and you won’t need that skill while you sail upon the northern sea.’

  Corban could not fault the logic, and he also knew that it was an immense compliment to Coralen. But still, it would be dangerous . . .

  He looked at Coralen. She was staring at him.

  ‘It makes sense,’ he said.

  ‘I shall go, then,’ Coralen snapped.

  ‘Only if you want to,’ Corban said.

  ‘I do. Why would I not?’

  Because I want you to stay. Corban shrugged and looked away.

  ‘Best get the last galleys shifted across this marshland then,’ Dath said, looking up at the sun.

  The next morning saw one hundred and fifty Jehar mounted and ready, horses stamping and restless, happy to be on solid ground and full of energy. Balur had taken a handful of Benothi and holed the hulls of the three pot-bellied transporters, sinking them into the depths of the river.

  Better that than the Vin Thalun reclaim them, thought Corban.

  Corban stood on the riverbank with Storm and Shield. He stamped his feet and blew warm breath into his hands. It was cold, a new chill to the air.

  Summer is waning. We need to reach Drassil before winter finds us.

  Shield nudged him and snorted.

  ‘Sorry, lad,’ Corban said, rubbing the stallion’s nose and patting his muscular neck. ‘I’ll miss you. Behave for Tukul. And enjoy your run.’ Shield had pranced off of the transporter like a coiled spring, full of life and energy, eager to gallop. Corban felt jealous that he would not be riding him across Isiltir to Gramm’s hold.

  Tukul was embracing Gar. He stepped back and held Gar’s face in his hands.

  ‘Look after our Bright Star while I’m gone.’

  ‘I have done so for close to eighteen years,’ Gar said indignantly. ‘I’ll not be stopping now.’

  Tukul flashed a grin. ‘My beloved son,’ he said and kissed Gar’s cheek.

  Corban turned away, memories stirring of his da. He came face to face with Coralen, who was checking her mount’s saddle girth.

  ‘Be careful,’ Corban said to her.

  ‘Huh,’ Coralen grunted.

  They regarded each other, Corban noticing the emerald of her eyes, the pink flush of her freckled cheeks in the chill dawn air.

  Footsteps thudded and Farrell appeared, Cywen and Dath with them.

  ‘I could come with you,’ Farrell said.

  ‘And why would you do that?’ Coralen snapped.

  ‘You might need me?’

  Coralen just sighed and shook her head. She swung gracefully up into her saddle.

  That’s remarkably reserved for her. She must be going soft.

  ‘Here, this is for you,’ Cywen said, grinning as she held out a throwing-knife in a fine sheath and wrapped in a belt.

  Coralen drew the knife and smiled, pale sunlight glinting on the iron.

  ‘I’ll practise every day,’ Coralen said.

  ‘See that you do.’

  ‘And make sure no one’s standing close by,’ Corban added.

  Coralen scowled at him.

  ‘Time to go,’ Tukul called out. He leaned in his saddle and he and Corban gripped arms.

  ‘Ride fast, and I’ll see you after,’ Corban said.

  ‘Aye. This side or the other.’

  ‘No,’ Corban said. ‘At Gramm’s. That’s my first order to you. Stay alive. All of you.’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ Tukul said with his wide grin. ‘And see that you all return the favour.’ His eyes lingered over Gar. ‘We’ll be sitting in Gramm’s feast-hall warming our toes long before you get there,’ he said, then he was turning his mount and cantering along the riverbank, the host of Jehar flowing out behind him.

  Coralen nodded to Corban and then she was gone, cantering to the head of the column, riding ahead to pick their route through the marshlands.

  ‘You going to miss her?’ Dath said.

  Corban had opened his mouth to answer when he realized that Dath was talking to Farrell, not him.

  ‘I will,’ Farrell said.

  Corban just watched them ride away. Finally in silence he strode back up the boarding-plank and onto his ship.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  FIDELE

  Fidele walked up the wooden steps of Ripa’s outer wall, her doeskin boots hardly making a sound. When she reached the walkway that edged the high wall she stopped, making sure that she stayed out of reach of the torchlight that crackled in an iron sconce close by, spreading a circular glow across the wall. Further along she saw the dark shadow of two guards, but they were both facing outward and had not heard her.

  Below her the town of Ripa was a dark shadow, here and there fires and torches marking the tiers of its flow down the hill that Ripa’s tower was built upon. Occasionally voices lifted in drunken song drifted up, borne on the sea breeze. Vin Thalun voices.

  Further out, she gazed at the wide meadows that surrounded Ripa, a huge black shadow, like a sable cloak spread across the land. And beyond that, the forest Sarva, and somewhere within it, to the north, lay Balara, that ancient giant ruin.

  And Maquin. Where is he?

  It was the eleventh night since Maquin had left with Alben and six others, heading to Balara to investigate the reports of Vin Thalun activity there.

  Eleven nights. They were supposed to be gone no more than four. Maybe five. A trickle of ice dripped into her heart, taking her breath away.

  Is he dead?

  Others were saying so, or thinking it at least.

  No. He has survived too much. But she knew that was ridiculous, as if life held a weighing scale to balance fair with unfair, right with wrong. But he came back from the bridge of swords . . .

  She gripped the timber wall, knuckles white.

  Nought but a fever dream, though I believed him, at the time. Wanted to believe him. And it doesn’t matter if it was a dream or truth. It does not change how I feel.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs behind her, the creak of timber, and she turned to see Peritus approaching. He came and stood beside her, looking out into the empty street beyond.

  ‘It is dangerous out here,’ he said quietly.

  She lifted her cloak and tapped the hilt of a knife. She’d taken to the habit of being armed at all times. It had been Maquin’s idea.

  Peritus grunted, no doubt thinking her knife would make little difference against a Vin Thalun. Maybe he is right, but I feel better for it. And I am not afraid to use it.

  ‘You have come here every night.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘They are long overdue,’ he said.

  ‘That means nothing.’

  ‘It means something. Maybe not the worst.’ He looked at her. ‘You were Queen of Tenebral . . .’

  There was a question in there, hesitant, voiceless. It said: What are you doing? How can you consort with a pit-fighter?

  Because I love him. ‘Do not worry,’ she said coldly, ‘I know my duty.’ Duty has taken so much from me. My pride, my dignity, almost my life. I will not let it take Maquin from me as well. Just a little longer – I will do what I must for Tenebral, for my people. And then . . .

  She reined her thoughts in, the possibility that Maquin could be lying out there dead returning to her.

  A long silence grew between them, like a wide space. She felt Peritus shake his head, a ripple in the air.

  ‘You should not be alone,’ he said eventually.

  She didn’t answer. A silence fell between them.

  ‘Marcellin will be here soon,’ Peritus said into the quiet.

  ‘Has there been any word of him?’

&n
bsp; ‘None. But he cannot be far away. We shall have justice.’ He looked at her. ‘And our revenge.’

  Peritus had suffered much, seen Armatus, his oldest friend, beheaded by Lykos. And he had seen Fidele in Jerolin, with Lykos at her side. She had condemned him to death, her friend, because of Lykos’ spell. Peritus knew why.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered.

  He reached out a hand and squeezed hers. ‘You were not yourself,’ he said.

  A Vin Thalun voice raised in song drifted on the breeze from the town.

  ‘Why are they not attacking?’ Fidele said.

  Peritus shrugged. ‘They have tried to storm the walls, and they have tried stealth. Easier to starve us out.’

  ‘But what of Marcellin? They must know he is coming.’

  ‘Aye.’ Peritus’ face creased in a frown, moonlight picking out ridges and making deep valleys of shadow on his lined face. ‘That troubles me, too.’

  A shout suddenly went up from the darkness beyond the wall. A clash of iron, a scream.

  Feet drummed on the stairwell as more warriors took to the wall. Peritus had his sword drawn. Krelis suddenly loomed over them, a dozen warriors filling the stairs behind him.

  ‘What’s going on, then?’ he asked them. ‘An attack?’ He sounded hopeful.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ Peritus murmured, eyes scanning the shadows. ‘Hard to tell, too dark.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Krelis said. He grabbed a torch from a warrior behind him and hurled it over the wall. It spiralled through the air, trailing a tail like a shooting star and thumped to the ground, sputtered but stayed lit. Darkness retreated around it, an orange glow illuminating the road and first buildings. Shadows appeared at its edge, figures lurching into the light, the first one silver-haired.

  ‘It’s Alben,’ Krelis boomed. ‘Ropes,’ he cried.

  Men spread along the wall, Fidele pushing her way through them to see.

  Alben stopped, pulling the man behind him on – a big man, tall, gangly, his limbs looking oddly stretched and out of proportion, somehow. Alben shoved him on, then turned and faced the darkness. The man he’d helped staggered out of the light, across the street and slammed into the wall, Fidele feeling the vibration of it. A handful of Alben’s men appeared running to the wall, shouting up at the onlookers.