by John Gwynne
‘Now, is that a way for a wife to greet her husband?’
She spat in his face. ‘I’ll put a knife through either yours or my own heart before I let you touch me again,’ she hissed at him.
‘You should be careful, the promises you make. You may have to fulfil that one.’
‘I intend to. Where is Maquin?’ she asked, something other than rage seeping into her voice.
‘In my care,’ Lykos smiled. ‘He will be well looked after.’
‘He is my shieldman, I demand that he be returned to me.’
‘I don’t think so. He is a slave. My slave, my escaped property.’
‘You will give him back, unharmed, or I will have your head today, and no force in the world of flesh will stop me.’
She spoke with such utter conviction that for a moment he believed her.
‘Don’t worry, I have no desire to kill him, quickly.’ He smiled. ‘Living will be a greater punishment for him.’
‘You will—’
‘I will do as I please,’ he hissed, feeling his anger begin to wax like the tide. ‘And you will stop telling me what to do, unless you want Maquin’s head as a gift.’
The three eagle-guards nearby stepped closer, watching him suspiciously.
I must tread carefully. They love her more than they do me, and I no longer have the effigy Calidus gave me, or the regency of Tenebral. Power is a fickle master.
He let his eyes wander her face and body. ‘I had forgotten how beautiful you are,’ he said. ‘And look, you gave me this.’ He lifted his shirt and twisted to show a scar low on his back. ‘I treasure it,’ he whispered. ‘And when you are back in my bed, we shall discuss what would be a fitting punishment for betraying your husband so . . . thoroughly.’
Her fingers twitched for her knife again.
‘As much as I would love to stay and chat, I have work to do. But we shall talk again.’
‘There is nothing left to say until we are both standing before Nathair,’ Fidele said. ‘He shall decide the right and wrong of this.’
‘This is a reprieve for you, nothing more,’ Peritus said. ‘Once we are before Nathair, you will know justice.’
‘We shall see,’ Lykos said.
‘Return Maquin to me,’ Fidele called after him.
Never, bitch.
Veradis’ voice filled the room, shouting No, over and over. Alben was staring at him, shaking his head.
Lamar’s chest had stopped rising and falling.
Krelis darkened the tent entrance, came staggering over, as if drunk.
Veradis looked up at him. ‘He’s gone,’ he said, palms open and bloody.
Krelis snarled and punched down at Veradis, again and again, men rushing to pull Krelis off. He shrugged them away, carried on punching, blood spattering from Veradis’ face. He made no effort to fight back, or even to pull away.
Then Alben clubbed Krelis across the back of the neck with the hilt of his sword, subduing him enough to enable warriors to pull him away.
Lykos left the tent, shaking his head.
Family.
The gates of Ripa’s tower were open and Lykos strode through as if he owned them, a hundred Vin Thalun about him. The Old Wolf is shackled, but he’s not my only enemy.
Veradis’ eagle-guard had stepped in during the confusion of the rowan-meet’s end, when rumour had spread and violence hung in the balance. The warband of Ripa had snapped and snarled like an angry dog, for the moment without clear leadership as Lamar was slain and Krelis was grief-stricken. Caesus, Veradis’ captain, had brought up his warband and ordered the men of Ripa to stand down. After a few tense moments they had, and now Lykos thought to take advantage of the confusion that had spread in the rowan-meet’s wake.
That Caesus is one to watch – followed Veradis’ orders without hesitation, and it was clear he’d have killed his own countrymen without any hesitation. Another fool too loyal to think for himself. He shook his head. Where does Nathair find them?
He strode through a timber feast-hall, through an arched doorway; the floor became stone as he entered the tower; a spiral staircase stood before him.
Up or down? Where are they? He sent half of his men up, took the rest with him and spiralled downwards, footsteps echoing as he wound his way deep into the rock of Ripa’s cliffs. At every corridor he sent men to search, until he was left with only a dozen men about him. Soon he found what he was looking for. A bolted door, two guards outside – men of Ripa. They stood uncertainly before him. He snapped an order and quickly had them overwhelmed and disarmed, then unbolted the door and kicked it open.
‘Ahh, here you are,’ he said as he peered in.
The giantess Raina and her bairn Tain were standing against the far wall.
The first thing Lykos noticed was that their collars were gone from their necks.
He stepped into the chamber and Raina snarled at him like a cornered wolven. Tain appeared hostile, too, but in a more brittle way, the kind you’d see in a wild horse – fire that could turn to flight. He clutched a chair in one hand.
Lykos’ men flowed into the room, Lykos pacing closer, drawing his sword.
‘I have missed you,’ he said, arms open in friendly greeting.
‘Come no closer,’ Raina growled. He saw a piece of chain in her hands.
‘You do not tell me what to do,’ Lykos snarled. ‘I thought you learned that lesson long ago.’ He stepped closer still, stopped a dozen paces away. ‘I hope that you have enjoyed your respite, because it is over. You are mine again.’ He looked at her hands. ‘I see that you have kept your collar and chain. Very helpful of you.’
‘To crush your skull with.’
Lykos sighed. ‘Need we go through this? If you resist, I will kill your son. I don’t need both of you – that is just a luxury, an extra surety. So.’ He looked between them both, saw Raina’s will wavering. He raised a hand and his men drew closer, spreading into a loose arc around the two giants.
‘Well?’
Raina’s eyes darted around the room, and she took a step closer to her son, part shielding him behind her. Lykos saw her eyes narrow and knew her answer. He drew his sword. She snarled and stepped forwards, hurling the collar at his face with startling power and speed, holding onto the chain, wielding it like a whip. He threw himself to the side, saw the collar crunch into a warrior’s face behind him, the man crashing to the floor in a gurgle of blood and teeth.
A Vin Thalun grabbed the chain, which in hindsight was a mistake, as he was pulled hurtling forwards towards Raina, grabbed by Tain and pummelled with a chair.
Lykos and his men rushed in, some jabbing Raina with spears. They knew, whatever Lykos said to the giants, that he would personally flay anyone who caused either of the giants’ deaths, so they were hesitant. While Raina was distracted with jabbing spear-points, Lykos sped in behind the furious Tain, who was still smashing what was left of a splintered chair-leg into the pulped head of his warrior. Lykos slashed Tain across the back of the leg and kicked him behind the knee for good measure, dropping the giantling to the ground. Lykos grabbed a handful of Tain’s hair and yanked his head back, resting his sword against the throbbing vein in Tain’s neck.
‘Hold,’ bellowed Lykos.
Raina froze instantly, then dropped her chain. Immediately the Vin Thalun were on them, tying their wrists with rope.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor and warriors walked in, a dozen, then a score, warriors of Tenebral in gleaming cuirasses with bright eagles on their chests. At their head strode the old man, Alben.
‘Step away,’ he said, eyes searching out Lykos. There was something about his stare that made Lykos wary.
‘They are my prisoners,’ Lykos said.
‘They are prisoners of war, agreed,’ Alben said. ‘But not yours. Veradis ben Lamar holds the highest rank here, and these are his men. He has ordered these prisoners taken into his personal custody.’
‘What? That is ridiculous,’ Lykos said.
�
��Here are the orders, and his seal,’ Alben said, waving a scroll at Lykos.
‘Pfah,’ Lykos grunted, waving an arm. ‘Papers. We are all on the same side here. What does it matter whose custody they are under?’
‘Exactly,’ Alben said. ‘So you will not mind if they are in Veradis’ custody, rather than yours.’ It was not framed as a question.
‘They are mine,’ Lykos snarled, feeling his temper fray. He was not used to dealing with so many disagreeable people all in the same day. He made to push past Alben, his Vin Thalun pulling the giants behind them. Alben stepped in his way.
Lykos put a hand to his sword hilt. Alben rested his hand gently on his. The hiss of swords being slowly pulled from sheathes sounded as the eagle-guard wrapped fingers around hilts.
Outnumbered. And I hate to say it, but those eagle-guard are Veradis’ veterans. In close quarters like this . . .
With a twist of his lips he pulled his hand away from his sword and barked a command at his men. They dropped the ropes.
‘And what does Veradis plan to do with them?’
‘Take them to Mikil with him.’
Lykos raised an eyebrow at that. ‘May I?’ he asked, gesturing at the open door and Alben stepped out of his way.
Lykos marched away, a seed of worry taking root in his gut. Mikil. Calidus will not look favourably upon that, and I will most likely get the blame. Ach, what a day. Still, it could have been worse. I need a good bottle of wine, and then I have an old friend to become reacquainted with . . .
CHAPTER SIXTY
ULFILAS
Ulfilas walked with a limp through Mikil’s keep, one arm bandaged and in a sling. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to use a sword with his old skill again. Yet he was thankful to be alive.
Though perhaps not for much longer.
He was about to see Jael, his first audience with the King since he’d been sent on his fateful mission in search of Haelan, the fugitive King of Isiltir.
A moon had passed since he’d led the attack on Gramm’s hold, since he’d ridden out against a warband of warriors charging uphill with long, curved swords. If he’d known they were the most skilful warriors the Banished Lands had ever seen he’d have organized a retreat before they’d arrived and left Gramm’s hold to them.
At least, the one that I fought was. And judging by the fact that I’m the only survivor of over three hundred men, I’m guessing that the others weren’t half bad with a blade, either.
Dag the huntsman walked beside him, neither one saying a word to the other. Silently they climbed a staircase and entered a long corridor, at its end shieldmen in red cloaks and black breastplates standing guard before a door. Sounds of combat drifted out, grunts and thuds, the clack of practice blades.
Ulfilas and Dag were ushered in and stood before Jael, King of Isiltir.
He was not alone.
The room was large, before Jael’s chair a space was cleared, in which two men fought. Ulfilas recognized one – the shieldman he’d seen win the bout in Dun Kellen, named Lafrid. The other he didn’t know, but even at a glance Ulfilas could tell that he was good. Careful, never overextending, patient. As Ulfilas watched, his eyes drawn for a moment, he saw Lafrid make a feint, much like the one he’d used in Dun Kellen, but the other man just stepped back and smiled.
The bout went on.
Beside Jael, seated in high-backed chairs, were three other men, and standing behind them the bulk of a giant.
Not more giants.
This one was dark-haired, face impassive, a war-hammer slung across his back. Of the three men seated, Ulfilas recognized the first – King Nathair, though he had been a prince the last time Ulfilas saw him, at the council of Aquilus. The years had worn heavy on him, nothing of the enthusiastic boy left about him. Now he was lean, still handsome with unruly curly hair, but there was a gauntness to his features, a hollowness about the eyes that spoke of a deep weariness.
Being king will do that to a man.
Next to him sat an old man, silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard on a sharp-lined face, clusters of laughter lines at his eyes. Despite his years he looked full of life, with bright eyes and a certain tireless energy about him. And then Ulfilas saw the third man. He almost took a step back, his fingers twitching in the sling for his sword hilt – it was a warrior similar to the ones he’d just fought at Gramm’s hold. Clad in black linen and dark mail, the hilt of a curved sword slung above his shoulder.
How can that be?
Perhaps the warrior felt Ulfilas’ eyes upon him, for he looked away from the bout and stared full at Ulfilas. Again he felt the urge to step back, to recoil. The man’s eyes were black, no pupil, no iris, just a black well. Ulfilas’ fingers moved to form the ward against evil.
The man looked him up and down, slowly, then returned his attention to the duel before them.
It came to an end suddenly, the patient man enduring a blistering combination of blows from Lafrid, the last strike too powerful, unbalancing Lafrid for a moment. The other man’s weapon darted out, struck Lafrid hard on the wrist, then it was at his throat.
‘You’re dead,’ the patient man said.
Lafrid blinked, it had happened so fast, then nodded grudgingly and gripped an offered arm. ‘Well done,’ he muttered.
Jael clapped, Nathair and the old man following suit. The dark-clothed warrior didn’t.
‘Well, it seems I have found my first-sword. Unless you have come to test your blade,’ Jael said, looking at Ulfilas.
‘I am afraid not, my King,’ Ulfilas said, looking down at his bandaged arm. The cut to his bicep had been the worst injury, slicing deeply through muscle.
‘I see you have a tale to tell. Well, let’s hear it.’
Ulfilas stepped forward, Dag following him.
‘I attacked Gramm’s hold, my lord, as planned. Ildaer and some of the Jotun joined us, and it was all going well, more than well: the gates were down and Gramm’s warriors broken, fleeing. We were hunting for the child when two warbands were seen approaching – one on a small fleet of ships.’
Nathair and Calidus sat up straighter at that.
‘The other a warband of riders, approaching from the south. I rode out to face the riders – we outnumbered them heavily.’ He glanced at the black-clad warrior. ‘They were like him. Clad in black war gear, no shields, curved swords worn upon their backs.’
‘Tukul,’ the black-clad warrior breathed, the word sounding like a curse.
‘Tukul?’ Jael said.
‘My sword-brother. A betrayer.’
‘We fought.’ Ulfilas felt a flush of shame. ‘They were better than us. The likes of which I’ve never seen before. I fell and later escaped when I saw the battle was lost.’
As he spoke of it Ulfilas remembered too vividly how he had been struck half a dozen times in as many heartbeats, somehow his reins slashed as well, and falling with a numbing crash to the ground. He’d lain on his back in the blood and dirt as the black-clad warrior had loomed over him, thinking his death was moments away. Then he’d seen the warrior choose to fight a bear and giant instead. He hadn’t stayed around to watch the outcome.
‘Dag found me a few leagues south – he’d been tracking the men who took the children from Dun Kellen.’ He dropped to one knee before Jael. ‘I failed you, my King.’
‘Yes, you did.’ Jael sighed. ‘But your honesty is refreshing, Ulfilas. Never any excuses from you. And did you make a mistake? I think not. Would anyone have had a different result in the same circumstances? Again, I think not. So I shall leave your head on your shoulders. This time.’
‘I thank you for your mercy,’ Ulfilas said, and he meant it.
‘It seems our enemies have joined forces,’ Nathair said. ‘The Black Sun evaded me in Narvon, stole some of my ships, burned the rest. Now I know where he took them.’
The Black Sun?
‘Well, we shall raise a warband and go pay them a visit,’ Jael said. ‘They will have Haelan with them now, no dou
bt.’
‘They are not at Gramm’s hold any longer,’ Dag said. ‘I found Ulfilas, but we didn’t come straight back. Went and watched them for a while. They left later that day, near a thousand of them, by my reckoning, heading east. I put a few of my boys on their trail. We’ll soon hear where they’re going.’
‘They’re going to Drassil,’ the old man said.
‘What?’ said Jael.
‘You remember my father’s council at Jerolin?’ Nathair said to Jael. ‘He spoke of the God-War, the polarization of sides between the Black Sun and the Bright Star. The prophecy that spoke of the Seven Treasures and Drassil.’
‘I do,’ Jael said.
‘Well, that is what this is. It is happening now.’ He looked hard at Ulfilas. ‘Those who attacked you, one of them was the Black Sun, an upstart peasant named Corban, though he dares call himself the Bright Star.’ His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘The servants of Asroth are prone to lies and deception.’ His eyes flickered to Calidus. ‘This is why I am here, why a council of war must happen between our allies.’ He pinched his nose, closed his eyes. ‘Better to leave this conversation for the council. Are the others here?’
‘Lothar arrived yesterday from Helveth, but there is no sign of Gundul yet.’
‘Ach,’ Nathair sighed. ‘Well, we will wait, then. There is always the morrow. I need to sleep now. It has been a long road, but before I go and find my chambers, I have a gift for you.’
‘That is most gracious of you,’ Jael said.
‘It is a little unusual, but I think that you will value it more highly than gold. Or even the head of this child pretender to your throne.’
‘You have my interest piqued,’ said Jael.
‘Sumur. He is your gift. These are dark times and our enemies lurk in the shadows, waiting for any opportunity. A finer first-sword you shall never find.’
‘These are dark times,’ Jael agreed, ‘and my enemies gather as we speak.’ Though Jael was looking at Sumur with little joy. ‘But, as you saw, my new first-sword is a very capable man. And the best in all of Isiltir.’
The old man spoke up now. ‘No offence to your newly appointed first-sword, but Sumur is better.’
