Ruin

by John Gwynne

  ‘Those are new,’ Balur observed.

  ‘Aye. They are raised over our Jehar kin who died here. Sixteen years we were here as the Hundred. Some died of sickness, others met Forn’s predators. Daria is there, Gar’s mother.’

  Corban looked at the cairns, stone slabs dotted with moss and pale flowers. He had never thought of Gar having kin elsewhere; the man had been such an integral part of his life, it felt strange to think of him having a life elsewhere.

  ‘Over there is the courtyard of forges,’ Hamil said. ‘You giants were very organized – nothing scattered, everything in its place.’

  Balur just grunted.

  ‘We have only used one forge while we have been here, but they are all prepared for use.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Corban said. ‘We will need them all.’

  ‘This way,’ Balur said, changing their course.

  ‘Ah.’ Hamil smiled, but said no more.

  Balur led them to a wide set of arched doors. He stood there a moment, hand on the iron handle, head bowed, and then tugged the door open. It was dusty inside, light streaming in on cobwebs thick as rope. Balur entered first, the others following.

  It was a weapons chamber, as large as Dun Carreg’s feast-hall, lined with racked weapons – axes, war-hammers, spears, longswords, daggers, along the back wall coats of chainmail and leather armour, shoulder plates, cuirasses, arm-bracers.

  Balur smiled.

  They tarried in there a while, Balur walking down each wall, trailing fingers against axe-hafts and hammer-heads as if he were greeting old friends. He stopped and pulled a spear from a rack and threw it to Ethlinn, who caught it with one hand and spun it, cobweb flying from its iron-spiked butt. Corban paused before a dagger, its blade wider and probably a little longer than his own sword. He ran his thumb across its edge and drew blood.

  ‘May I have this?’ Corban asked Balur.

  ‘Of course,’ Balur said.

  Corban drew it from the iron rack, found a leather scabbard for it.

  For Farrell, when he needs to chop heads from the Kadoshim.

  They left the chamber with some regret and entered a courtyard that was lined with stone buildings, hundreds of them, looking more like a row of stables than anything else, though taller and wider.

  ‘The bear pens,’ Balur said.

  They were a hive of activity and appeared to be being put to good use. Corban saw some of the Jehar who had remained behind organizing the stabling of horses, removing tack, rubbing mounts down and providing water and food.

  One line of the pens was built against a high wall, green with thick vines and hanging purple flowers. Hamil led them through the courtyard to a set of steps built into the wall and they climbed them. Meical came out of a stable, saw them and followed after.

  The view at the top was not what Corban expected.

  The branches of Drassil’s great tree stretched out over the wall to cast dappled shadows over a deep meadow that ringed the fortress, a wide open space – or killing ground.

  ‘That is not natural,’ Corban observed, pointing to the open meadow.

  ‘It is not,’ Hamil said with pride. ‘It was Tukul’s undertaking, and took us many years to clear the trees and undergrowth so far back from the wall. On the south side of the fortress we have tilled fields of wheat, maize, rye. The harvest was good.’

  ‘It is an amazing feat,’ Meical said.

  ‘So it is,’ said Corban, ‘and it will be most useful to us if Nathair and Calidus come against us here.’

  ‘They will,’ Meical said.

  ‘You are sure?’ Corban looked at the Ben-Elim.

  ‘Yes.’

  Corban took a deep breath. ‘I have been so focused on just getting here that I have given little thought to what we will do now that we’ve arrived. We must talk of what comes next.’

  ‘We should,’ Meical and Balur said together, and Hamil nodded his agreement.

  ‘But for now let us settle, find our places here, rest. Soon we will make our plans.’

  Corban woke feeling unsettled, a pale grey light seeping into his chamber. It was the first night he’d spent in a bed since they’d left Dun Taras with the warband of Domhain, and yet he’d slept poorly.

  A year ago. And my back aches more now, after one night upon a mattress stuffed with goose feather and horsehair than it did sleeping rough on the floor.

  But his broken night’s sleep was not just down to the mattress. He had dreamed again of the Otherworld. It had been similar to the last time, where he had been walking in a green valley, a lake in front of him, waters still and pure, and behind him tall cliffs that reared as high as the bloated, blood-red clouds.

  That had struck him as odd. His memory of the Otherworld was of shades of grey, land, rivers and sky, but this place was lustrous in its colour. He’d wandered, the beauty of the place seeping into his very being, filling him with a sense of calm tranquillity. And then he had seen Meical, flying high above with great beats of his white wings. Somehow he had known it was Meical, although he was too high to distinguish any features, and he had remembered Meical’s words to him, about Asroth hunting him, about the Kadoshim flying abroad in the Otherworld. Promise me if you find yourself there again, that you will hide, do not move. Asroth’s Kadoshim fly high, and they will see you before you see them.

  So he had found shelter beneath a red-leaved maple, sat and watched Meical as he had alighted on the cliff high above him. He thought he glimpsed other white-winged figures greeting him, but then they all disappeared into a dark hole in the cliff face. And then . . .

  Then I woke up.

  He dressed quickly, strapping on his sword-belt and pinning his wolven cloak about him. Something struck him as wrong. He looked about and realized that Storm was not with him, remembered now looking for her when he’d awoken during the night, missing her presence. Perhaps that had contributed to his restlessness.

  Probably off exploring, sniffing every corner of this place. Still, it was unusual, and he’d rather have her at his side. He opened his door to find Gar standing there with a fist raised to knock.

  ‘Sword dance,’ Gar said by way of explanation, then turned and strode away. Corban followed him, the slap of his boots ringing in the empty corridor.

  The weapons court of Drassil was enormous, like everything else in this fabled fortress, most of it hard-packed earth and worn grass, to one side an area flagstoned. Weapons bins stood full of practice blades, and even though the Jehar didn’t use anything other than their curved swords, there were stacks of shields and spears, lined in racks, a row of straw targets at the far end of the field.

  It is not so different from the Rowan Field at Dun Carreg.

  Dawn mist clung to the ground, the air was chill and heavy with moisture, the sky above feeling as if it was pressing down upon them, clouds bloated and heavy with rain. As Corban hurried along behind Gar he saw Coralen, standing with Enkara and Kulla, Enkara showing them a combined rotation of shoulder and wrist. Corban recognized it as a technique that Gar had taught him a while ago, a way of getting a final snap into the strike of a two-handed blow.

  The three women looked up as he approached them.

  ‘Coralen, have you seen Storm?’

  ‘Not since yesterday,’ she said.

  Corban frowned. ‘Me neither. The last time I saw her was just after we came out of the tunnel. She ran off with Buddai.’

  Coralen raised an eyebrow at that.

  ‘I think I might know where they are, or at least what they’re doing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think Storm’s in season.’

  ‘What!’

  Corban blinked, for a moment not understanding. Then Coralen’s words sank in.

  In season? Are Storm and Buddai making pups? In hindsight it was so obvious that he almost slapped his forehead. Her change in behaviour, her playfulness with Buddai. Of course wolven have seasons, but I have noticed nothing. Too busy, too preoccupied to notice thos
e around me. And she’s run off with Buddai. He thought about that a moment and then smiled. They would make fine pups. Or cubs?

  ‘Corban,’ Gar called to him and Corban hurried away, Gar throwing him a curved practice sword.

  Corban loved the sword dance; it was like an old friend or a favourite place, such as the oathstone glade in the Baglun, somewhere that he would go where he felt safe and comfortable. Once he began, raising his sword high, two-handed into stooping falcon, everything else melted away. He did not even remember moving from one form to the next, flowing between them like liquid. The dance ended with a lunge and shout combined, a straight thrust that began in his ankles and ended with his blade through an imaginary opponent’s heart.

  With the shout still ringing in the air Corban blinked and looked around, sweat dripping from his nose. The weapons court was full with what must have been every single person that had travelled to Drassil with him. Corban saw Balur and the rest of the Benothi, villagers of Narvon, Wulf and the survivors of Gramm’s hold, Javed and the oarsmen from the Vin Thalun ships, all mingled. Something white moved, and for a moment he thought it was Storm, but then he realized it was much smaller – the terrier, with Haelan standing beside it.

  All of them were staring at him, and as he looked back he realized what a unique and varied warband they made, so many strengths and specialities amongst them.

  We are a force to be reckoned with.

  ‘This is the weapons court,’ he heard himself cry out. ‘Come, join us, for here we will forge the warband that will slay the Black Sun and his followers, and set the Banished Lands free.’

  Where did that come from?

  A silence settled about him, and then a huge roar, starting, Corban suspected, with Farrell and Dath, but growing into a bellow louder than a hundred draigs. As it died out and people began stepping into the court Corban marched over to Balur, Gar pacing behind him.

  He won’t let me get out of sparring, even if I am the Bright Star.

  ‘Balur, I would ask something of you,’ Corban said.

  ‘Aye,’ Balur said, eyebrows knitting together above the scarred socket of his missing eye. ‘Ask then.’

  ‘Would you spar with us? You and your kin?’

  ‘Is that wise?’ Gar said quietly.

  ‘A good question,’ Balur rumbled.

  ‘At Gramm’s hold we fought giants. At Murias I saw Benothi fighting alongside the Kadoshim. My guess is that we will be fighting giants again.’

  If possible Balur’s eyebrows knitted tighter and protruded further.

  ‘So you want me to teach you how to kill giants?’

  ‘Yes,’ Corban shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t take it personally – we already practise how to kill each other, us men.’ He glanced at the Jehar warriors about the field, many of them women, finally at Coralen, who was performing a particularly vicious move that ended up with Farrell on his back and Coralen’s weapon thrust under his jaw. ‘And women.’

  Balur glowered down at him, then his brows unknitted.

  ‘I was wondering if you would ask me. The answer is yes, it is wisdom. We will spar with you, though perhaps first some practice weapons should be fashioned for us – axes and war-hammers in the dimensions that we use.’

  ‘Well, it’s not like there’s a shortage of wood,’ Corban grinned.

  Balur’s face twisted and it took a moment for Corban to realize the giant was smiling at him.

  Hamil approached Gar and whispered something in his ear. Gar frowned and Hamil pointed over at the Jehar, who were gathered together in a loose circle, seemingly every last one of them.

  ‘What is it?’ Corban asked.

  ‘The Jehar are choosing a new leader,’ Gar said, the frown still on his face.

  ‘Tukul is gone.’ Hamil shrugged. ‘We follow you, Bright Star, but there should be a lord amongst us. That is the way it has always been.’

  ‘Aye. So why are you frowning?’ Corban asked Gar.

  ‘Akar has put himself forward,’ Hamil answered when Gar didn’t.

  Gar and Hamil walked away, towards the gathering of Jehar. After a moment’s hesitation Corban followed.

  The Jehar were standing in a ring, over three hundred and fifty of them, with Akar standing at their centre.

  ‘How does this work?’ Corban whispered to Hamil.

  ‘A warrior is nominated, or nominates themself. If more than one is put forward, then the court of swords decides.’

  Corban looked at Akar, standing stern and resolute in the circle’s centre.

  ‘I have waited the allotted time,’ Akar called out, looking up at the sun. ‘None have presented themselves, no one has nominated another.’

  He is a great warrior; I’ve seen him fight, and he has proved himself many times over during our journey here. And he has led a company, proved he has the skills to lead. But he was fooled by Nathair, fought for him. Corban frowned, troubled at the thought of Akar taking up Tukul’s mantle. But who could take Tukul’s place? No one.

  Except Gar.

  Do I just think that because of how close I am to Gar? Instantly he knew the answer to that was no. He loved Gar like a father and brother combined, but above and beyond that he knew that Gar was a great man, deserving of leadership.

  ‘Something troubles you?’ Hamil asked him quietly.

  ‘I think Gar should be your lord,’ Corban said.

  A smile twitched Hamil’s mouth. ‘I nominate Garisan ben Tukul,’ he cried out in a loud voice.

  Akar’s head snapped around to him, as did the head of every other Jehar in the crowd. Except Gar. Corban saw his friend bow his head. He looked up at Hamil. ‘I am not worthy,’ he said.

  ‘He is not worthy,’ Akar said. ‘I have spent my life in Telassar, I am already a named captain of the kin, have led warriors in battle. I am trained and proven.’

  ‘Another has been nominated,’ Hamil said. ‘The time for words is passed, only the court of swords can decide this.’

  ‘If he accepts the nomination,’ Akar said, eyes falling upon Gar.

  Gar looked at Hamil, about the crowd, then finally at Corban.

  ‘You are worthy,’ Corban said to him. ‘No one more so.’

  He sighed, then nodded. ‘I accept,’ he said, and strode into the ring to stand before Akar.

  Hamil stepped out of the crowd.

  ‘Akar ben Yeshua, would you stand against Garisan ben Tukul in the court of swords?’

  ‘I would,’ Akar said. ‘He has been tainted by the world, softened and weakened. He is not fit to lead the Jehar.’

  That made Corban angry. He fought to keep his mouth clamped shut.

  ‘Garisan ben Tukul, would you stand against Akar ben Yeshua in the court of swords?’

  Gar stood before Akar, head bowed, then raised his eyes and met Akar’s gaze.

  ‘I would,’ Gar said. ‘Because my father did not want Akar to lead the Jehar.’

  Akar scowled at that. ‘A dead man’s words should stay with him, in the grave.’

  Gar drew his sword.

  What!

  What are they doing?

  ‘Why is Gar doing that?’ Corban gasped, grabbing Hamil’s arm.

  ‘Because his father would have wished him to.’

  Akar drew his blade, threw his scabbard to one side.

  ‘No. Why are they using sharp iron?’

  ‘This is to the death,’ Hamil said.

  Gar and Akar faced one another.

  There was a pause, the calm in the storm before violence is unleashed, death’s wings close.

  Corban walked into the ring.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Everyone looked at him.

  ‘You will not fight to the death,’ he shouted. ‘Asroth and his Black Sun outnumber us, threaten to overwhelm us. I need every warrior that can hold a blade – and two Jehar with a lifetime of skill and learning . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It is a waste. I will not lose either of you over this decision.’

  Both men stared at hi
m.

  ‘What would you have us do, then?’ Gar asked. ‘This must be decided.’

  ‘Let it be to first blood,’ Corban said. ‘If anything, that will reveal the greater skill.’

  Both men stared at him, then nodded.

  ‘Then begin,’ Corban said and stepped back into the crowd.

  The two men raised their swords and without any other sign attacked.

  Their blades rang, a flurry of high blows from both men, neither giving ground. Then Gar stepped in close and kicked Akar in the knee. Akar staggered back, for a fleeting moment his cold face twisted with shock and anger. Gar followed him, striking in a long, relentless combination to head, neck, groin, gut, heart, head – Corban recognized each and every blow, one flowing into the next, fluid as a song.

  Akar defended, something the Jehar did rarely, giving ground with a shuffling backstep, favouring, protecting his injured leg.

  Corban felt a presence behind him, glanced back quickly to see crowds forming, seemingly every man woman and child in the weapons court. The sound of iron on iron had drawn them.

  Gar did not let up, Akar’s defence beginning to appear frayed, disjointed as he tried desperately to parry every blow.

  Abruptly Gar stopped, took a step back and walked slowly around Akar.

  ‘You are right to say that the world has touched me, moulded me,’ Gar said, eyes never leaving Akar as he paced around the warrior, who was taking advantage of the respite, setting his feet, controlling his breathing.

  ‘But you are wrong to say it has made me weaker.’ Gar stepped forward, sword moving again, iron clashing, ringing loud. This time Akar did not give way and the two of them stood, chopping and lunging, blocking, stabbing, parrying, neither one able to break through the other’s defence, each parry turned into a strike that was in turn blocked. Blow by blow they inched closer, until they were standing with swords locked above them, grating sparks, legs planted, leaning into their blades as if they were an extension of their bodies, both staring at each other, sweat dripping. Then Gar’s head jerked forward, headbutting Akar on the nose. Blood spurted and Akar stumbled back a step, Gar’s foot hooking behind Akar’s ankle and then Akar was on his back, blood running down his chin, Gar’s sword hovering over him.