by John Gwynne
‘No,’ snapped Brina. Then, calmer: ‘Please. Let me try. Just a little longer.’
I guess I owe her that much. If spells can help us then we should probably take every opportunity. Still, I don’t like it . . . and if she doesn’t tell Corban soon then I will.
Having reached a resolution with herself, Cywen slipped into silence again until she saw a group of riders cantering towards them from the east, a score, maybe a few more.
Brina kicked her horse on.
‘Where are you going?’ Cywen asked her.
‘One of the benefits of being a counsellor,’ Brina said over her shoulder, ‘I get to be nosy.’ She cantered down the column towards Corban.
Cywen thought about that a moment.
Well, I am Brina’s apprentice, or assistant, or whatever she likes to call me. So I should assist her. She kicked her horse after Brina.
Corban raised an arm and Dath blew on his horn, the whole column rippling to a halt. The riders approaching them were mostly warriors, dressed in leather and fur, with iron helms, straight spears and strong shields, their war gear looking similar to that of the surviving warriors from Gramm’s hold. Then Cywen saw the bairns – two riding together on one horse, a lad and lass, and another sitting before a thickset warrior with long arms and no neck. A small white dog ran along beside them.
They are from Gramm’s hold.
It was a good guess because Hild, sobbing and smiling, jumped down from the wain she was driving and ran to meet them, the lad and lass slipping from their horse to run into her arms.
Wulf and Hild’s children, then. The ones Jael had been holding hostage. But who is the other child?
Corban stopped before the warrior with the child sitting in front of him. The white dog ran around Shield, barking excitedly, then he saw Storm, tucked his tail between his legs and hid behind the horse. He stuck his head out from behind a leg and growled.
Storm looked disdainfully at him, then looked away.
‘Wulf tells me that you are Haelan,’ Corban said to the lad, who was dirt stained, and looked exhausted and scared witless, but he managed to sit straighter in his saddle, and when he spoke he looked Corban in the eye and his voice had conviction.
‘I am Haelan ben Romar, rightful King of Isiltir,’ the lad said.
‘Well met, Haelan,’ Corban said, speaking solemnly. ‘I am Corban ben Thannon, and I am prince of nowhere and king of nothing, but I do lead these people, and we are sworn to fight the man who has usurped your throne, because he serves Asroth and the Black Sun. So you would be welcome amongst us and, I suppose, as safe as it is possible to be in these times of war.’
Haelan looked up at Corban, then down at Storm, and finally along the column that stretched back almost out of sight, full of Jehar, Benothi giants, pit-fighters and so many others.
‘You are going to fight Jael? Going to defeat him?’
Corban smiled. ‘I cannot promise you a victory, only that I’ll fight him and win, or die in the trying.’
Haelan nodded, not looking like his eleven or twelve summers at all.
‘That is good enough for me,’ Haelan said. ‘I will gladly join your warband, Corban ben Thannon.’
Corban held out his hand and took Haelan’s arm in the warrior grip. The lad looked momentarily taken aback, then pleased. And then Corban was riding back to the head of the column, Dath blowing on his horn again, and the warband stuttered into movement, the newcomers joining them. Buddai left Cywen’s side and loped over to the small terrier, who jumped all over him as if they had been friends forever. Buddai slapped the dog gently with a paw, then rolled in the grass.
Cywen smiled at the sight, seeming so natural and ordinary in these most unnatural of times. She took one last look behind her, the sun sinking into the horizon, the fires on Gramm’s hill guttering low. Then she turned her head to the east and rode on, towards the endless green that was Forn Forest.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
EVNIS
Evnis sat by the tower gates with his head in his hands. He felt a lot of things right now. Foolish, most of all. I cannot believe that I just stood up in the middle of a field and called Vonn’s name.
The emotion of seeing his son after so long had been over-whelming. Clearly. But it was fading now, a distant blend of joy and fear. In its wake was the realization that he had ruined an exceptional plan. It didn’t help that Braith was pointing that out to him, repeatedly.
And Morcant was furious about his silver. It’s not his silver. It was given to him by Rhin, and she will expect to see it used wisely or returned to her. Perhaps that is why he is so angry. Or scared.
The sun was setting, and Evnis’ hundred shieldmen had arrived. Morcant had ridden in with two hundred swords, so the tower and hill was suddenly a very busy place with horses being put out to pasture, tents going up and food being cooked.
Before him the marshlands shimmered, glittering like a many-faceted jewel in the fading rays of the sun. With a deep sigh he stood and walked down the hill to where Braith and Morcant were standing, close to where the enemy had escaped. Glyn followed a few paces behind.
I cannot believe that I stood in the open and allowed an enemy to aim his bow at me.
Evnis had never been an impulsive man – emotional, yes, deeply so, but he never acted on that emotion. Not immediately, anyway, certainly not impulsively. Except today.
And there had been one high spot, one good moment in the midst of all of the irrational behaviour and shame.
Vonn saved me.
Evnis had played that moment over and over in his mind; Camlin with an arrow aimed at his heart, and then Vonn’s hand resting on the archer’s arm, stalling him.
What does that mean? The one thing for sure is that at that moment he didn’t want me to die. That gives me much hope. If only I could have talked to him. He ground his teeth. It will happen, and when it does, he will come back to me. If he does not – I cannot have my son fighting for my enemy. He stopped himself from thinking that . . . he would not allow it to come to that.
He reached Braith and Morcant. Rafe, a little apart, was squatting with the two hounds and looking down the waterway that had been used so effectively as an escape route. Morcant had tried to follow, hell-bent on recovering his chest of silver, but within a few hundred paces the ground became impossible to ride a horse upon, and soon after that was too treacherous to walk upon. Maybe with time, men picking their route, but not fast enough to keep the boats within sight.
‘We need to talk,’ Evnis said, the sight of Morcant’s petulant face both annoying him and focusing him.
‘We need to do more than talk,’ Morcant muttered, but Evnis pretended he hadn’t heard him and walked on towards the riverbank.
‘So. Let us decide,’ Evnis said. ‘How, exactly, are we going to kill Edana?’
‘Starve them out,’ Morcant said. ‘I’ve been building towers around the marshland, they won’t be able to leave without my seeing them. And I’ll either buy the local villages’ loyalty, or raze them to the ground. Either way they won’t be able to trade for food.’
Evnis looked at him as if he was mad.
‘They live in a marsh. It’s not farmland, where crops only come in the right season. Look in that river and you’ll see a hundred fish. They are not going to come out because they’re starving.’
Morcant scowled at him but didn’t reply.
Intelligence is not a necessary pre-requisite for skill with a blade, then.
‘We either lure them out, which I imagine will be impossible, or we go in there after them,’ Evnis said.
‘I’m going to go in there and find them,’ Braith said. ‘Then I’ll send someone back to get you.’
‘You can do that?’
‘Aye. That’s what I was going to do anyway – would’ve been easier if I’d had Halion to follow . . .’ He looked pointedly at Evnis. ‘And now Camlin knows I’m here, he won’t make life any easier for me.’ His hand drifted up to the scar between h
is neck and shoulder. ‘But I can still do it. It will take longer, and I’ll need a few more men – huntsmen, preferably. If that’s not possible then men who are good on their feet, quiet. Observant.’
‘You shall have them. But, once you find Edana and send word to me, how do you suggest I bring a warband in there?’ He looked at the marsh, lip curling in disgust.
‘Buy boats. Build boats. Steal boats. That’s how they’re getting around in there, and it’s the only way you’ll move a significant amount of men.’
There’s a forest a few leagues behind me, and every village situated about this stinking mosquito-infested latrine will have fisher-boats.
‘We can do that,’ he said.
‘You’ll need a lot of boats for that lot,’ Braith observed, looking back up to the tower.
‘I don’t think even that will be enough,’ Evnis said. ‘I’m sending a messenger back to Dun Carreg for more warriors. We don’t know how many are in there – fifty, a hundred, three hundred, five? I don’t want to go to all this hard work, get our warband in there only to find out that we’re outnumbered.’
‘Makes sense,’ Braith said. ‘And you’ll want to leave Morcant’s towers manned, in case they decide to bolt and run. Not enough for a fight, but enough to track them if they go running.’
‘Aye. Good,’ grunted Evnis. For all of his arrogance he is a good man to have around in a situation like this. And whatever arrogance he has, it is as nothing to that preening peacock over there.
Morcant had just stood and listened, glowering every now and then into the marshland.
‘Long as I get that chest of silver back,’ he muttered.
‘You might never see it again,’ Evnis said, enjoying seeing him squirm a little.
‘If I don’t I’ll be telling Rhin you’re the reason it’s gone,’ Morcant snapped.
‘Ha, that silver was gone before I arrived. You wouldn’t even know about it for another ten-night if I hadn’t been here.’
Morcant stalked up to him, his blade in his hands, and Evnis fought the desire to take an involuntary step back.
‘I will have it back, or I’ll have blood,’ Morcant snarled.
‘I can promise you one of those,’ Evnis told him, glaring.
‘And what if you see your son again?’ Morcant sneered. ‘Will you betray our position again? Perhaps you should not come.’
‘You do not make the decisions here,’ Evnis said, cold and hard now. ‘And I promise you all, I shall not act again as I did today. The next time I see him, my son will join me, or he will die.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
VERADIS
‘I do not think this is a good idea,’ Lykos said as he leaned back in his chair and tipped more wine into his mouth.
‘Why not?’ Veradis asked him.
‘Because none of the people that you have invited to this party like me.’
‘That is probably true—’
‘Definitely,’ Lykos interrupted.
‘You are safe enough for now, this is a rowan-meet; it is sacred.’
Lykos raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d be surprised how far some people will go, once they have begun a course. And, as I said, they really don’t like me.’
What damage have you caused in Tenebral? Whatever you have done, it ends now. Veradis felt an overwhelming anger at Lykos and the trouble he had caused. If it were up to him he would have slapped him in chains and given the regency back to Fidele, or to Peritus if the rumours of her unstable mind were true. But it is not up to me. I have been given clear orders where Lykos is concerned, more’s the pity.
‘We must try and reach some compromise.’
‘Surely. As long as it doesn’t involve me being separated from any of my body parts.’
‘Nathair values you most highly. That is not an option.’
‘You reassure me,’ Lykos said with a smile, then drank some more wine. ‘Not as much as having Kolai standing at my back, perhaps, but enough to convince me to stay and see what happens.’
All were allowed one person to accompany them, again, out of tradition more than any real fear of danger. The rowan-meet was sacred, a deep-rooted tradition brought with the Exiles from the Summer Isle. Kolai, the cold-eyed warrior whom Veradis had noticed on the harbour, stood implacably behind the chair Lykos was sitting in. Veradis had brought Caesus with him.
The tent flap was pulled back and in walked Lamar, Lord of Ripa.
Da. Veradis felt the breath catch in his chest. His da had aged, far more than the two years that had passed since last they’d seen one another. He was gaunt, a stoop to his frame that had never been there before, and the skin on his bones was loose and waxy. His eyes met Veradis’ and he stopped, just stared at his son. Those eyes still held all the wit and intelligence that Veradis remembered.
‘Father,’ Veradis said.
‘You have grown,’ Lamar said solemnly, looking him up and down.
Veradis shrugged, not knowing what to say. Suddenly he felt like a little boy in his father’s presence.
‘Gods, but you look like your mother,’ Lamar said with a sigh.
Veradis blinked at that. Others had said much the same. Many others, but never his father.
‘Please, sit,’ was all he could think of to say.
A table had been set out, with a jug of wine and cups. Lamar sat opposite Lykos. He regarded the Vin Thalun lord with what most would have considered an emotionless gaze, but Veradis could see the cold hatred behind his father’s eyes. Then there were more figures entering the tent. Ektor came first, looking completely unchanged, dark hair stuck across his forehead, face pale and sallow. He met Veradis’ eye and nodded to him, no words of greeting.
They had never been close.
Behind him came Peritus and Alben, both men he respected, one whom he loved. Alben had been his weapons-master, and more than that, had shown him more kindness than his father ever had. He smiled at the old man, silver hair tied tight at the nape. Alben returned the smile, warm and open, and then they were both sitting.
Marcellin entered then, with one shieldman at his back, a warrior almost as tall as Krelis. He sat with a nod to Lamar and Peritus and poured himself some wine.
‘Welcome,’ Veradis said, moving to a chair.
‘Not all are here yet,’ Lamar said, holding a hand up.
Then Fidele stepped into the tent.
She paused at the entrance, her eyes fixing on Lykos with clear hatred and scorn.
Hardly the loving wife, then. She was as beautiful as she had always been, though different. There was something hard about her, the bones of her face harsher, muscles shifting in her forearm as she gripped the tent pole. And stronger. She had seemed frail when Veradis had left Tenebral, brittle with grief. Now that was gone. She tore her eyes away from Lykos, who was not looking happy at her presence, and walked to an empty chair.
‘She should not be here,’ Lykos said. ‘She is unhinged, has brought this realm to the brink of war.’
‘I will not leave,’ Fidele said. She looked at Veradis as she said it, not Lykos.
She does not look unhinged to me.
Behind her a warrior entered, not overly tall or muscular, but his presence filled the room, a melding of grace and menace. He was old for a shieldman, streaks of iron in his hair, heavily scarred, one ear just a lump of flesh, and he was not dressed as a warrior of Tenebral, only in a plain linen shirt and leather vest. And knives. Two at his belt besides his sword, a hilt poking from a boot, and Veradis suspected more were secreted about his body. Then the warrior looked at Veradis.
‘Maquin,’ he whispered.
‘Well met,’ Maquin said, his face a cold mask.
The last time I saw him was in Forn. He was wounded, bloody, had been chased to exhaustion, but I still recognized him. Now, though, this is not that man . . .
Maquin stood behind Fidele.
‘So you have tamed the Old Wolf, then,’ Lykos said.
‘Do not speak to her,’ Maquin sai
d.
‘Or what?’ Lykos said good-naturedly. ‘This is a rowan-meet, remember.’
Maquin said nothing, just stared unblinking at Lykos.
‘Perhaps I should speak to you, then,’ Lykos said to Maquin. ‘I see you have grown your warrior braid back.’
‘Hair grows,’ Maquin shrugged.
‘Aye, and can be cut again.’
‘Many things can be cut,’ Maquin said, his gaze radiating hatred as palpable as heat from a fire.
What is going on here?
‘Enough,’ Lamar said. He looked at Veradis. ‘We have come at your request, though I hold no hope for reconciliation here. Lykos has done too much, gone too far.’
‘That is yet to be seen,’ Veradis said with a sigh, taking his place at the table, opposite his father. He had thought he was ready for this, prepared. He realized that he wasn’t. He poured himself some wine.
I must resolve this. Redeem myself to Nathair for my failure in Narvon. He took a slow sip from his cup and focused, just as he did in the shield wall, when the shields cracked together.
‘There cannot be war in Tenebral,’ Veradis said. ‘We must find another way, and the fact that you have all come here shows me that you are willing to try.’
‘We are here out of respect for Nathair, the King,’ Lamar said.
‘That is a good place to start,’ Veradis said.
‘How is my son?’ Fidele asked him.
‘He is well, my lady. Weary. He has fought a long campaign, and come through many trials and battles. He has forged alliances, as Aquilus began before him.’
‘He has abandoned Tenebral to this lunatic so that a foreign king or two can put their names on a piece of parchment,’ Lamar said with a snort, gesturing at Lykos.
Veradis took a deep breath.
‘No, Father. He has done much more than that. He fights the God-War, is the Bright Star spoken of in prophecy, and he has captured a fearsome weapon, the starstone cauldron, one of the Seven Treasures.’
Lamar frowned at that.
‘He has it, then,’ Ektor said. He glanced at Fidele.
Fidele reached over and gripped Veradis’ wrist.
