Ruin

by John Gwynne

  ‘Is this a regular occurrence with you?’

  No.

  ‘What’s that?’ Akar the Jehar said, pointing away from Cywen, into the darkness.

  They all stopped and stared. A flicker of light appeared in the distance, like a distant candle. As they watched it grew and spread a little, blazing brighter in the darkness.

  ‘What is that?’ Corban repeated.

  ‘Elyon, no,’ Meical gasped. ‘We need to rouse the camp and move. That is Gramm’s hold, and it is burning.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  HAELAN

  Haelan crouched in the darkness and cuddled Pots.

  He was sitting on a barrel of apples in the cellars beneath Gramm’s hold, a single candle burning, Pots at his side with ears pricking at every strange sound that filtered down from above. And there were a lot of those.

  Why did I send Tahir away? I wish Tahir and Wulf were here. They had left a few days after the bear-hunt, riding away one cold morning towards Dun Kellen. Wulf had given Haelan a note to pass to Gramm. When the time is right, Wulf had told him.

  Gramm had read the letter, stared at it a long time, then crumpled it in his fist. His gaze had shifted to Haelan, who’d stared back at him, or tried to.

  ‘They’ll be back,’ Haelan had whispered weakly.

  ‘I hope so,’ Gramm had said and walked away. Haelan had not heard him mention Wulf or Tahir since that day, but he saw him each evening standing on the wall staring into the south as the sun faded into the horizon.

  Shouting drifted through the cracks in the boards above his head, sometimes a distant scream, making him jump and sending fear jolting through him. His hand searched out the shaft of the hatchet Trigg had given him and he pulled it from his belt, gripping it tight, imagined becoming a grown warrior and standing on the wall besides Gramm, the man who was risking all to help him.

  The warband had been sighted in the pale blush of sunset, approaching from the south-west. It hadn’t taken long to see Jael’s banner held above them. Gramm had ordered the gates barred; everyone from the houses beyond the hold’s wall was herded inside, and every warrior in the hold dressed in his war gear and manned the walls. Eighty men in all. Haelan had climbed the wall and hidden in the shadows by the gate tower, waiting along with Gramm and his men.

  The warband had reached the gates soon after sunset, three hundred strong at least. A tall warrior approached the gates in gleaming mail and a horsehair plume trailing from his helmet.

  ‘I am Ulfilas ben Arik, come in the name of Jael, King of Isiltir,’ the warrior cried out, his warband gathering like a storm cloud behind him, bristling with iron and malice.

  ‘Give up the child. I know he is in there. Give him up, and be rewarded by your King with more silver than you could spend in a lifetime. Continue to protect him and every last one of you will be dead by this time on the morrow.’ His horse had fidgeted, stamping and dancing on the spot. He’d turned it in a tight circle. ‘Talk on it; I will return soon.’

  ‘You can have my answer now,’ Gramm yelled, looking more like a giant than a man in his war gear of leather and mail, a great axe clenched in his fists. ‘Jael’s no king of mine, and you can tell him from me to shove his silver up his arse.’

  Chaos had erupted then, spears flying, Jael’s men attacking the gates with an iron-shod ram. Gramm’s men on the wall had hurled spears and rocks down upon them, a great cauldron of oil heating over a fire-pit above the gates. Gramm had been yelling orders and suddenly spied Haelan crouching in the shadows.

  ‘To the cellars with you,’ he’d growled at Haelan. ‘One stray spear and you make all this worthless.’ The look on his face had both scared Haelan and made him feel ashamed and so he’d gone running for the cellars, an old healer giving him a candle, opening the trapdoor for him and shutting him in.

  And here he was still, what seemed like days later. It was full dark, Haelan knew that, as there was a grate at the back of the cellar that opened onto the world above. Moonlight shone through the bars, and wisps of smoke occasionally drifted down, bringing the smell of burning timber. Other noises filtered down to him through the gaps about the trapdoor. From the feast-hall came the sounds of injured men being tended to, or comforted as they died. Or not comforted. Just watched. Maybe holding their hands. He remembered his mam telling him sometimes that was all you could do.

  Footsteps sounded above, dust shaken loose from the cracks in the floorboards, then the trapdoor opened. Light flooded in, making Haelan blink. Gramm stood there, silhouetted. He strode down the steps, ducking his head. Haelan saw blood on his axe, caught the smell of woodsmoke and the sharp tang of metal. No, that’s blood. I remember it from Dun Kellen. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stem the flood of memories that surged up.

  Gramm sat on the bottom steps and rested his chin on his fist.

  ‘I can’t get you out,’ he said.

  Haelan frowned at him, not understanding.

  ‘They’ve surrounded the hold, lit a ring of torches. I was thinking to sneak you over the wall and into Forn while it is dark, but . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘They’re not attacking, then?’ Haelan asked.

  ‘Not any more.’ Gramm chuckled. ‘They tried that and it didn’t go so well for them. We’ve given them reason to stay back, at least.’ He patted the head of his axe. A waft of smoke curled down the steps.

  ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘They’re trying to burn us out. The gate tower’s in flames.’

  ‘They did that at Dun Kellen,’ Haelan said morosely.

  They sat in silence a while.

  ‘Thank you,’ Haelan whispered. He felt tears welling in his eyes at what Gramm had sacrificed to help him. ‘For all that you have done for me.’

  Gramm nodded. ‘I’ll not lie to you, lad, I’ve always spoken straight. Things don’t look good. There’s over three hundred of them, all proven swords, eighty of us in here. Hard men and brave, and a wall between us and them, but . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I expected more. All my years I’ve been waiting for these days – the God-War. To be taken out of it before it’s hardly begun.’

  ‘Life’s not fair,’ Haelan said.

  ‘No. It’s not.’ Gramm sighed. ‘If they find you . . .’ His hand dropped to the hilt of a knife at his belt.

  ‘I know. My head will be on a spike.’

  ‘Aye. And maybe more.’

  Haelan swallowed at that. He wasn’t sure what Gramm meant, but the edge in his voice and the look in his eye spoke louder than any words.

  Gramm drew his knife from his belt, turned it in his hand, the candle flame shimmering on the iron.

  Haelan felt afraid.

  I’m used to that, he told himself. He felt a small flicker of anger in his belly, at Jael, the author of his fear, the man that had hounded and hunted him. In his mind’s eye he saw Jael’s face, remembered him from court visits, always with a smirk twisting his lips.

  ‘We’re not dead yet,’ Haelan muttered. ‘And, as Tahir is fond of saying, every path has its puddle.’

  Gramm stared at him, then he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  I didn’t think it was that funny.

  Gramm stood, towering over Haelan, wiping his eyes.

  ‘It’s as safe down here as anywhere. I’ll have the trapdoor covered with something heavy when I leave. Just stay quiet. There’s food, drink, more than enough to last you a moon. You never know . . .’

  They might not find me. Can’t see that happening.

  ‘And if they do find you, take this.’ He gave Haelan his knife. It was heavy in his hand, the iron cold.

  Is this to use on the enemy that come through that trapdoor, or on myself? He was not brave enough to ask.

  Gramm ruffled his hair and walked up the stairs, the trapdoor thudding closed. Then there was the sound of grating above as something heavy was dragged, men grunting. Then fading footsteps.

  Haelan lay down on the floor, shivering, curling around Pots
, and closed his eyes.

  He woke with a start, Pots licking his face. He’d been dreaming, about the hunt for the bear in Forn, the one that had killed the wolven. Tahir had still been here, then, and he had gone on the hunt with Gramm and Wulf and a few score others, leaving Haelan at the hold. They’d not found it, but Tahir told him they’d followed its tracks into Forn and then north to the river. Huge paw prints had led down to the dark waters, and all had concluded that the bear and its rider had swum back across to the river’s far side, to the Desolation. Haelan hoped so, though from that night on he’d had the same recurring dream of being lost in the forest, wandering alone and terrified, and then finally becoming aware that he was no longer alone. That he was being followed. Hunted.

  I’ve been hunted for as long as I can remember.

  And now they’ve found me.

  He realized his candle had gone out but he could still see, faintly. Dawn has come, then.

  It was quiet, no sounds of battle, or anything, come to that. He remembered his conversation with Gramm, picked over it, looked at the knife Gramm had given him, lying on a flagstone beside his hatchet. The prospect of staying in this cellar for a moon or more made him shiver. Another day was too much.

  ‘Pots, what am I to do?’ He stroked the wire hair of the dog, wanting to leave the cellars, too scared to move.

  Even if I wanted to leave, the trapdoor’s been blocked and hidden. I’d never get it open.

  A crash echoed from somewhere above, making him jump. Sounds drifted down, men shouting, behind it a dull thud, repeated, like a heartbeat.

  They’re attacking the gates again.

  Another crash, this time much louder, and closer.

  Are they inside the walls? Have they found me?

  He clutched the hilt of the knife that Gramm had given him. More crashing, and Haelan realized with a start that someone was pounding on a grate high in the cellar. It shook in its foundations, buckling under the pressure as it was repeatedly thumped, then it was falling into the cellar, a face filling the space it had occupied.

  Haelan brandished the knife, waiting for the enemy to come slithering through the man-sized hole in the wall. Instead he saw a face staring down at him.

  Trigg.

  The half-breed smiled grimly and stuck her arm into the cellar.

  ‘Think you better come with me – they’ll be through the gates soon.’

  ‘Gramm said this is the best place to hide,’ Haelan said.

  ‘I’m not going to put you somewhere to hide,’ Trigg said. ‘I’m going to get you out of here.’

  Haelan paused a moment and then his feet were moving.

  He dragged a barrel over, found that when he stood on it he could reach Trigg’s hand. All of a sudden he jumped down from the barrel, retrieved his hatchet and knife, threading them both through his belt, held Pots under one arm and climbed back onto the barrel. He lifted Pots up and Trigg took him, hoisting him out. The dog turned and poked his head in through the gap beside Trigg’s broad face, looking down at Haelan, then Haelan was being heaved through the hole, wriggling out, fingertips digging into the dark soil. Pots growled and pounced on his arm, began tugging on his sleeve as if it was some game. And then Haelan was out.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘This way,’ Trigg said.

  They headed towards the main gates, slipping into the deep shadows along the feast-hall, Pots trotting at Haelan’s heels.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be going the other way, finding somewhere dark and small to sneak through?’ he asked, though part of him was glad that Trigg was leading him towards the gates, maybe the knowledge that this was all happening because of him, and the very least he could do was not hide from it.

  Mam never hid from anything.

  ‘It’s madness at the gates, easier to slip through,’ Trigg hissed down at him. Then they were around the corner of the hall and looking at the gates.

  They stood frozen for a moment, then Trigg gestured and they ducked behind the wheel of a wain, both of them peering through it at the scene before them.

  Dark silhouettes of warriors strode the walkway on the wall, more of them appearing through thick smoke. One of the gate towers was on fire, flames crackling into the sky, clouds of smoke billowing across the courtyard. People were running, a chain of them passing buckets of water in an attempt to douse the flames. The gates were still closed and barred, though there were cracks in the thick timber and the bar across them was twisted and buckling. They shuddered at another impact. Warriors stood in a line before it, shields and spears ready.

  Haelan saw Gramm on the wall, above the gates, bellowing, pointing with his axe-head. As Haelan watched he saw Gramm and a few others lift the cauldron hanging suspended over the fire and empty its steaming contents over the wall. Screams rang out. The crashing against the gate stopped.

  There was a loud crack, and part of the flaming tower collapsed, charred wood tumbling into the courtyard, pinning someone beneath it. Their shrieks of pain made Haelan cover his ears.

  Then something strange happened.

  Everyone on the wall stopped moving.

  They were staring, out beyond the wall. Then Gramm turned and bellowed.

  ‘GIANTS!’

  There was a rumbling from beyond the gates, like the pounding of drums, marching, and then an unmistakable sound, one that Haelan had heard before, that day in the meadow close to Forn when he’d been helping to repair the wall. A roar, ear-splittingly loud, the vibration of it reverberating through his chest.

  Something colossal crashed into the gates. The wood cracked, the bar bucking in its rests, hinges screaming protest. Gramm was yelling himself hoarse, throwing another spear over the wall, ordering the cauldron filled and back on its spit, shouting at a few huntsmen with their bows nocked to shoot faster.

  Another impact on the gates. There was another crack as the bar bowed in its rests. In the courtyard before the gates warriors yelled and shuffled closer together, spear-points wavering.

  Then the gates shattered, a huge explosion of splintered timber and iron, a cloud of dust and smoke blown into the courtyard, smothering everything, billowing as far as the steps of the feast-hall.

  Haelan covered his mouth, blinking. Beside him Pots growled.

  The dust slowly settled, revealing the open gateway, one door hanging from snapped hinges, the other gone entirely.

  A huge shape came shambling through, all teeth and claw and fur, eyes glaring, a giant sitting astride it bellowing a war cry, brandishing a war-hammer.

  Pots whined and tucked his tail between his legs.

  Trigg hissed beside Haelan, her whole body tensing.

  All became chaos.

  The warriors lined before the gates spread out in a half-circle, over a dozen of them. Haelan saw them all drop their spears and shields, reaching to their backs for their axes.

  Then the axes were spinning through the air, crunching into the giant and his bear. The giant toppled from his saddle, his face a red ruin, axe-blades buried deep in his chest. The bear bellowed, two axes in its skull, staggered on half a dozen steps and crashed to the ground, sending up a fresh cloud of dust.

  The men of Gramm’s hold have fought giants before.

  Another bear appeared in the gateway, surging through it, the giant upon it yelling a battle-cry and brandishing a spear as thick as a small tree.

  A giantess, Haelan thought absently, noting the lack of moustache.

  She flung her spear at the warriors gathered before the gates as they scrabbled for their own shields and spears. The giants’ spear struck one and sent him crashing backwards in a fountain of blood. The bear powered forwards, as broad as two stallions and taller, and smashed into the clustered warriors, raking one paw through them, leaving a trail of gore. Some still standing stabbed with their spears, piercing the bear’s thick coat. Haelan saw blood flow from a handful of wounds, but the bear ignored them, tore the head from a warrior with its powerful jaws, the giant on its
back swinging a war-hammer, turning another warrior to bloody pulp. More shapes appeared behind the giant and bear – warriors on horseback surging in upon either side, the unmistakable sound of more bears roaring beyond the wall.

  Something fell from the wall above, hurtling towards the bear and its giant-rider in the courtyard.

  Gramm. Not falling. Leaping.

  He was yelling, swinging his great axe. With a wet crunch it slammed into the giantess’ head, blood, bone and brain erupting.

  The bear roared, standing on its hind legs and flinging Gramm and the dead giant to the dirt, the surviving warriors before it cringing back. With a concussive boom the bear fell back to all-fours and sniffed the giant. It lifted its head and roared again, spittle spraying from its jaws. Gramm staggered to his feet, swaying, and the bear raised a huge paw and swiped him, sending him flying through the air to land and roll to a stop at the feast-hall steps. He did not move.

  Haelan ran to Gramm, Trigg trying to grab him and missing. He dropped to his knees beside the big man’s head, wiped hair and blood from Gramm’s face and the man’s eyes flickered open.

  Gramm looked at Haelan, his lips moving, and Haelan put his ear to Gramm’s mouth.

  ‘Run,’ the big man whispered.

  Haelan hesitated. He looked over at Trigg, still behind the wain, and she pointedly looked from him to the open gates. Then he was off, sprinting to the outer wall, then zigzagging across the courtyard, spinning around fighting warriors, ducking through horses’ legs, avoiding bears, until he was at the gates. They were empty now, the enemy warband had passed through, fighting within the courtyard or riding people down beyond the feast-hall. More fires were springing up.

  Haelan stepped hesitantly through, looking out at the meadows beyond, huge pastures undulating into the distance.

  Where do I go? Not that way – they’ll see me from a dozen leagues away.

  He looked east, to Forn, and shivered, remembering his dreams.

  Hunted.

  Horses neighed in the paddocks, Gramm’s legacy, a lifetime of breeding. Haelan felt fresh tears spring to his eyes at that.