Ruin

by John Gwynne

  You’d make a good warhorse, my friend, but Daria and me, we know each other, like you and Corban, eh? So I shall ride her into battle, and she can tell you of her glory later. Shield had snorted at him and stamped a hoof.

  And then Tukul was leaping into his saddle and kicking Daria into a ground-eating canter. Not a gallop, he didn’t want her blown if there was going to be a fight at the end of this last dash to the finish line.

  They crested a rise in the road and saw the hold before them, black smoke billowing from the gate tower. From this distance Tukul could see figures on the wall, hear the blowing of horns, behind it all the faint din of battle. He thought of the last time he had been here, of Gramm’s friendship and hospitality, of learning to throw an axe and being gifted one by Wulf. He thought of Gramm’s huge laugh and crushing embrace.

  I hope I am not too late, my friend.

  They rode on, Tukul loosening his sword in its sheath, fingertips brushing the haft of the axe strapped to his saddle, then they were on the road that sloped up to the gates, meadow pastures to either side.

  All-Father, may my sword stay sharp and my body swift.

  He could see the gates had been smashed in.

  Whoever did that will be regretting it, now that they cannot shut us out.

  Horns blew from above the wall and riders issued from the gates, forty, sixty – more all the time. Tukul grunted his respect for whoever had made the decision to meet them in the open.

  Better to keep us out than in, and brave not to hide behind their walls.

  Tukul raised a fist and a hundred and fifty Jehar spread to either side of the slope, forming dark wings about him.

  ‘Should we be doing this?’ Coralen shouted to him.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Charging uphill against a mounted foe.’

  ‘Probably not,’ Tukul called back, then laughed with the joy of it. Strategy be damned, nothing will stop me reaching my friend.

  Then something huge strode through the gates. For a moment Tukul did not know what it was, then his eyes focused on the enormous jaws and hammer-like paws, tipped with thick-curved claws. A giant rode upon its back, dark-haired and brandishing spear and battle-axe. Another bear and rider filled the gates behind it.

  Except perhaps that.

  Tukul grinned. Now this is a fight worthy of the Jehar.

  ‘We’ll make a song out of this one,’ he yelled to Coralen, laughing, wind whipping his hair. She grinned back at him, raised an arm and clenched her fist, wolven claws chinking.

  Attacking uphill, against a mounted enemy, giants and the great bears of the north. Madness.

  He drew his sword, all about him the Jehar doing the same, a flash of lightning in the pale sunshine. He whispered to Daria, urging her into a gallop, holding his sword two-handed above his head, using foot, ankle, knee and thigh to guide his mount.

  ‘TRUTH AND COURAGE!’ he cried, the battle-cry taken up and echoed back at him by Coralen, Enkara and the others, a thunder-clap of voices.

  Then they were crashing together, two waves of flesh, blood and bone, leather and fur and tooth and iron. Tukul had ridden Daria straight for the great bear and its rider, but warriors had flowed into the space between them.

  I will carve my way to it, then.

  With his first blow Tukul took a head from its owner’s shoulders, sending it spinning, blood jetting. He swerved Daria away from a spear lunge, deflected the spear-point, ran his sword down its shaft and severed the fingers that clutched it, then he was riding past, back-swinging his blade into the warrior’s neck. Daria slammed shoulders with the next horse; a roll of Tukul’s wrists, and he opened the rider’s throat, Daria stretching her neck and biting chunks of flesh from horse and rider.

  Then he was through the line, blinking at the speed of it, a stretch of turf and dirt road before the gates to the hold. Behind him battle raged, and even at a glance he could tell the Jehar were cutting more of the enemy down with every stroke. To his right loomed one of the giants. As he watched, the bear it was riding crushed a horse’s skull with a swing of one huge paw, the giant lunging with his spear and skewering one of his Jehar, lifting the man from his saddle and flinging him through the air.

  Tukul kicked Daria at them, raising his sword, yelling a war cry.

  A horse and rider crunched into them, Daria staggering, almost falling, the warrior swinging at Tukul’s head. Tukul blocked the blow, irritated at being delayed from reaching his intended foe. Rotating his shoulders, he turned his block into a downward chop, but he was parried, the enemy swaying in his saddle and turning his own defence into a stab at Tukul’s throat.

  Tukul flicked the sword-point away, nodded and smiled, acknowledging the skill of his opponent. He took a heartbeat to study him – an ornately etched helmet with horsehair plume and mail tail protecting the back of the neck, shirt of mail, single-handed sword and an iron-rimmed shield – fine, solid equipment, better than most around him.

  A leader of men, then. A captain, perhaps even lord. Because of the man’s skill Tukul gave him the respect of his full attention.

  He touched his heels to Daria’s ribs, urged her to the left and forwards, sending a combination of blows at his enemy as he rode at him, a series of swooping chops and short lunges, splinters and sparks flying from the warrior’s shield and blade. His opponent blocked most of them, though ever more wildly, each time pulling him more and more out of position, blood welling from a cut to his thigh and another on his forearm. Daria bit his mount’s neck, causing it to pull away, for a heartbeat spoiling the rider’s balance. Tukul struck again, opened a cut across the warrior’s bicep, slicing deep into muscle just below his mail sleeve, slashed at the reins, severing them, a short backswing, sword crunching into the man’s mail shirt, bruising if not breaking bones, then pulled back and chopped down once, twice, three times, the third blow glancing off of his opponent’s helmet and slicing into the gap between mail shirt and the helmet’s mail tail. Blood spurted, though Tukul knew instinctively that the wound was not deep.

  Nevertheless the combination of blows sent the man reeling in his saddle and, without his reins to balance himself, he toppled from his mount, crashing to the ground, where he lay, winded and bleeding.

  Tukul hovered over him, looking for a space to lean down and finish the man, then he heard a scream from his right, saw a Jehar sent flying from his mount by a bear-swipe.

  That beast needs to stop killing my sword-kin. He whispered in Daria’s ear and she leaped away, found some open ground and launched herself at the bear and its rider.

  There was a pile of corpses about the bear and giant, horses and Jehar massed like a tide-line of the dead. Tukul mastered his anger, guiding Daria along the bear’s flank, and he sliced into the animal’s rear leg, pulling away, knowing it had been a good blow, cutting through muscle and chipping bone.

  The bear bellowed in pain and stumbled back, its leg giving out, the giant lurching in his saddle, seeing Tukul and lunging at him with his spear. Tukul swayed back, hacked and splintered the spear-shaft. He guided Daria away from the bear’s front claws, felt the wind of their passing as he rode out in front of the bear, turning Daria in a tight circle. Tukul sheathed his sword in its scabbard across his back.

  The bear was twenty paces away, stationary now, wounded, enraged and savage. It roared at Tukul and Daria, spittle spraying from its great jaws, the giant lending his voice, bellowing at them and brandishing its battle-axe. Tukul snarled back at them and kicked Daria straight at it, unclipping his axe and hefting it. He slipped his feet from his stirrups, in one smooth move bringing them up to the saddle, and then he launched himself into the air, flying over one swiping claw, bringing his axe down two-handed with all his strength to crunch into the bear’s skull. Bone and brain splattered his face, and he heard a horse screaming. The bear collapsed in a spasm of fur and muscle, Tukul losing his grip on the axe-shaft, spinning through the air to land with a bone-jarring crunch. He tried to get up but couldn�
�t draw a breath, his lungs burning, his back screaming at him to lie still.

  Dimly he was aware of a hulking form rising out of the ruin of the bear’s slumped carcass, heard the grief-edged bellow of the giant.

  Get up and live, stay here and die, he told himself, jolts of agony stabbing through him as he rolled onto his front, pushed himself onto one knee. The giant towered above him, his axe pulling back, and Tukul reached for his sword, drew it, stood on unsteady feet, face raised in defiance.

  Then the giant staggered and roared in pain, arms flailing. It turned away and Tukul saw a figure clinging to its back, legs wrapped around the giant’s waist, punching one fist into its side, time and time again, the fist coming away red, sharp claws splattering blood.

  Claws?

  Tukul blinked, still dazed from the fall. Then he realized.

  Coralen.

  The giant sank to its knees, arms reaching for Coralen. She grabbed a fist full of its hair, yanked its head back and raked her wolven claws across its throat. Then she dropped from its back and kicked it face down into the dirt.

  ‘This battle’s growing into a fine song,’ she said as she put a steadying arm on his shoulder.

  ‘That it is, lass,’ he said, looking at the dead giant and bear, doubting the song would mention his aching back. He turned to look for his horse, thinking he’d feel more stable back in a saddle, then saw Daria a dozen paces away, lying on her side. Half her flank was ripped open to the bone, and Tukul remembered the claw swipe that he’d leaped over.

  He ran to her, staggering, and she raised her head at his voice, whinnied at him, pink foam frothing from her mouth and nostrils as she tried to stand, legs kicking. She got her front legs under her, then toppled back on her side, eyes rolling white with pain.

  ‘Easy, my brave girl,’ he soothed, tears welling in his eyes. He patted her neck, the battle about him dimming to a dull roar.

  You’ll not be getting back up to run again, my faithful friend.

  For a moment his voice alone seemed to soothe her pain and she lifted her head and looked at him with dark, liquid eyes.

  Resting his head on her muscular neck, he breathed a prayer, kissed her and then put his sword through her throat, the last act of a faithful friend. He crouched beside her as the battle passed him by, only a few footsteps away, stroked and whispered to her until her eyes glazed and her legs stopped kicking.

  He stood, a dark rage swelling in his chest, and looked about. Coralen was gone. Out here on the slope the battle was almost done, the enemy retreating back into the hold. His Jehar were pressing after them, sounds of battle ringing out from the courtyard beyond.

  He stalked through the gates, the courtyard he remembered transformed, full now with heaving battle, the stench of blood and death, billowing smoke. He looked to the feast-hall, saw a great bear standing guard on the steps, two men behind it spiked to two thick columns.

  Gramm. Wulf.

  The bear swatted at anyone that came close, but did not move from the steps, a beast defending its kill.

  Tukul ran across the courtyard, ignoring the pain in his back, past Coralen and Enkara fighting back to back, swerving around another dozen acts of combat, his grip tightening on his sword hilt. The bear saw him coming and roared, fur bristling, swung at him with one great paw. Tukul skidded under the blow and hit the ground, his body rolling before coming up underneath the bear’s snapping jaws and ramming his sword up, through fur and flesh, the blade going deeper still, through the lower jaw and on, blade almost to the hilt now, into the bear’s brain.

  It spasmed, a mountain of muscle and fur, blood gushing from its mouth as its head jerked, a convulsion that tore through its body, one last violent paroxysm and then it was collapsing, Tukul taking the weight of the beast’s head upon his shoulders. He stood there, chest heaving, covered in blood, then ripped his blade free and shrugged the head to the ground.

  He pounded up the stairs. One look at Gramm and he knew the man was gone. His belly was one great wound, looking as if the flesh had been chewed, not cut. Tukul grimaced and looked away, saw Wulf, unconscious, pale from loss of blood, his chest rising and falling weakly.

  Tukul grabbed the spear that pierced Wulf’s wrists, jerked it free and Wulf sank into his arms, eyes fluttering open.

  ‘My da . . .’ Wulf whispered.

  A sound filled the courtyard, overwhelming the din of battle. A pounding roar. Tukul looked up to see bears with giants upon their backs come lumbering around the side of the feast-hall. Two, three, four of them. Upon the first bear sat a blond-haired giant, war-hammer in his fist dripping gore. He looked at the steps, saw the dead bear; his face twisted in rage.

  Then he saw Tukul.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CORBAN

  Corban ran up a gentle slope, weaving amongst half-repaired boats suspended on timber scaffolding as he followed Meical deeper into a maze of grain barns and boatyards, tanners and smokehouses.

  They had rowed through the night until Corban felt that his heart and lungs would burst. With the coming of day he’d heard the sounds of battle echo down from the hold upon its hill, seen the fires spreading. Meical had urged them on, until they had turned a bend in the river and seen a row of jetties and boathouses lining the bank. At a glance it was clear that the battle was not over, but also that it wasn’t going well for Gramm, great columns of black smoke punctuating the pale blue sky, figures fighting on the hold’s walls.

  Corban had ordered all armed for war, he’d arrayed himself in his wolven pelt and claws, as had Farrell and Gar. The ship had barely scraped against the jetty before the boarding-plank was lowered and Meical was leaping to shore, Corban and the rest of them surging after him.

  Briefly they paused on the riverbank, waiting for numbers to gather, and then they were off, Meical leading the way, Corban following close behind.

  He heard the thumping rhythm of Storm running at his side, behind that Balur One-Eye’s thunderous gait and the sound of other ships grounding, his warriors pouring from their decks. The plan was simple: to gather on the riverbank and follow Meical to the top of the hill where Gramm’s feast-hall stood, where the fighting had seemed fiercest. He’d ordered Cywen to stay on the ship with Brina, Buddai and a handful of others, though that hadn’t gone down too well. Giving Cywen orders never went well.

  Meical slowed before him and they spilt out of the lanes between buildings into an open space, a high wall looming above them. A bonfire crackled close by, red-cloaked warriors with black cuirasses, a white lightning bolt and coiled serpent upon their leather breast-plates were gathered around it – Jael’s men. Open gates stood to the left, bodies strewn about. Gramm’s folk. Meical saw them and charged for the gate, seemingly in a berserker rage.

  Corban followed without thinking, blocked a hurried blow from a rider, Storm leaping and tearing the attacker from his saddle, ripping his throat out before they’d hit the ground.

  Balur roared a battle-cry, a handful of his Benothi kin surging forwards swinging their black axes, and suddenly blood was fountaining. In heartbeats the enemy before the wall were dead or fleeing and Corban was following Meical through the open gates.

  Ahead of them towered the rear of a long timber feast-hall, an open space before it of hard-packed earth. To either side of the hall were wide lanes, edged with long stable-blocks and all manner of outbuildings, and amongst them battle raged. Here and there clusters of what must have been Gramm’s warriors were holding against overwhelming odds. At the slope’s crest, before the feasthall, Corban caught a glimpse of riders in black mail with curved swords.

  Jehar.

  ‘Tukul is here,’ Corban cried, turning to Gar, then he was raising his sword and charging into the fray, the thought of his comrades on the far side of this feast-hall fighting alone filling him with a cold fear.

  Where is Coralen?

  He chopped into the leg of a rider, dragged him from his saddle and let Storm finish him, ran on, slammed into a knot of w
arriors that had more of Gramm’s men backed into the gates of a stable-block. He didn’t stop moving – sword and wolven claws raking, stabbing, chopping. The battle mind, as Gar often referred to it, settled upon him, when everything about him seemed slow, as if his foes were moving through water and he could see every blow before it began. A man on foot with sword and shield came at him cautiously and Corban stepped in close, swept a stabbing sword aside and punched his wolven claws over the shield’s rim. They came back bloody, the warrior collapsing. He moved on, deflected a spear lunge, stabbed his sword up into an armpit, pivoted away from another horseman who had moved in to attack, Storm leaping at the horse, making it rear and throw its rider to the ground. Corban stabbed him through the throat before he could rise. To his right Corban glimpsed Farrell crush a skull with his war-hammer, to his left Gar took someone’s head off. In front of him a rider toppled from his saddle, an arrow through his throat.

  Dath. A quick glance showed Kulla with him, the young Jehar protecting Dath’s flank.

  A deafening roar reverberated around the hold. From the corner of his eye he saw something disappear around the far side of the feast-hall, something huge. He glanced at Gar, but he was concentrating on pulling his sword from someone’s chest. Corban continued forwards.

  He’d moved closer to the feast-hall, the slope levelling, but still the way was blocked by a heaving mass of combat. He snarled in frustration, desperate to reach Tukul, Coralen and the others. Glancing about, he saw stairs running up the hold’s wall and without thinking ran towards them, bounding up two at a time, footsteps following him – Storm and Gar, Farrell, Dath and Kulla.

  The walkway was empty of the living. He paused at the top a moment to look about.

  The hold was full with seething battle, horses rising and plunging, men screaming. There were more of his warriors pouring through the open gates, numerous Benothi giants amongst them. Further back, he saw Javed leading scores of oarsmen – many of them veterans from the Vin Thalun fighting-pits. Down below him Meical was carving his way through the enemy, behind him Balur and a handful of Benothi moving forwards like a floating island.