by John Gwynne
There was shouting behind him, Camlin shuffling backwards to see what was happening while keeping Braith in his vision. Vonn and Rafe were circling one another warily.
Then Braith was coming at him again, blood sluicing from the wound in his hip. Another flurry of blows, high chops, swinging loops, all merging into a fluid assault, and a rushed retreat. Eventually they parted, a red line leaking blood across Camlin’s shoulder.
‘Last time you had to poison me to beat me,’ Braith said, face pale from blood loss, but his eyes were sharp, voice steady and calm. ‘What are you going to do this time, Cam? You’re not my match with a blade, we both know that.’
‘I’ll just have to think of something,’ Camlin muttered and darted in, his sword-point lunging straight at Braith’s heart, dropping the blade as Braith sideswiped a block, carrying on his lunge to score a red line across Braith’s ribs, cutting through leather and wool, blood seeping as he leaped back, away from Braith’s backswing.
‘Maybe I’ll just bleed you to death,’ Camlin said, circling Braith warily.
I’ve blooded him twice. Can’t believe I’ve done that. If only the Darkwood boys could’ve seen it. But luck doesn’t last long against Braith, and he’s right, he is better’n me. What I could do with is some help.
Camlin risked a quick glance at Vonn and Rafe, saw they were still circling one another. Camlin frowned. It sounded as if they were talking to each other.
‘Vonn,’ Camlin barked, ‘less talking, more killing.’ Then Braith was coming at him again. Camlin retreated before a withering combination of blows, his heart thudding in his ears, too fast to feel fear, just reacting, retreating, muscle and sinew straining as his whole body strived to avoid death. He held his blade two-handed, blocked another powerful blow that reverberated through his arms into shoulders and back, each blow weakening him a little more, his breath coming harder, his reactions a fraction slower. He saw a grim smile twitching Braith’s lips, knew the end was coming.
Something moved in the corner of Camlin’s eye, a stick spinning out of the mist and smacking into Braith’s head, the wood shattering in an explosion of splinters.
Meg emerged from the mist, threw another piece of rotted wood at Braith, striking him on the shoulder. It didn’t hurt Braith much, but it did give Camlin the opportunity he needed.
He turned and ran.
For a heartbeat, two, three, four, there was no sound of pursuit from Braith, then a snarl and heavy footsteps. Without looking, Camlin hurled his sword behind him, heard a clang as Braith struck it from the air, a curse as he stumbled, then Camlin was diving, rolling, one hand grabbing his bow, the other scrabbling for an arrow from his quiver. He came out of the roll on one knee, looking back, saw Braith bearing down upon him, sword raised high over his head, six paces away, four, Camlin’s death in his eyes.
He nocked his arrow, drew, two paces, the sword swinging down in a glittering arc.
Release.
The arrow punched into Braith’s gut, stopping him like a kick from a mule, sending him staggering back a handful of paces, sword swinging wild, hissing through the air before Camlin’s eyes.
Another arrow from those scattered from his quiver. Braith snarling, cursing him, lurching unsteadily towards him.
Nock, draw, release. This one slammed into Braith’s chest, sending him crashing onto his back, blood erupting.
Camlin stood, breathing hard, still wary.
Braith rose to one elbow, then to one knee.
Another arrow, nock, draw, release, throwing Braith flat on his back again.
‘Stay down,’ Camlin yelled, relief starting to seep through him. Another arrow.
‘He’s finished,’ Vonn said, walking close. Camlin saw Rafe’s back as the lad crashed through reeds and long grass, sighted his arrow, gazed along the feather and smooth shaft, iron tip to Rafe’s back, raised it, adjusting for distance, to the left for the wind, all a process that was as natural as breathing, done in a handful of heartbeats.
‘Let him go,’ Vonn said in his ear. ‘He’s a misguided, scared boy, nothing more.’
‘He’s sat his Long Night, made his choices as a man,’ Camlin growled, but he hesitated and then Rafe was gone, claimed by the mist and marshes.
Camlin lowered his bow and strode over to Braith, who was still trying to get up. Camlin made sure he stopped out of arm’s reach of the woodsman.
Braith’s woollen shirt was soaked with blood, leather vest stained dark with it, the snow around him churned pink.
‘Looks like our score’s settled,’ Camlin said, looking down at his old chief.
‘Not supposed to end like this.’ Braith wheezed as he made a final effort to rise. Only his head moved. He coughed blood and lolled back into the snow.
‘We don’t always get what we want,’ Camlin muttered and stood there, watching Braith’s chest rise and fall, the gap between each breath growing longer. Blood bubbled from Braith’s mouth and Camlin waited for another breath.
It never came.
Camlin looked about, saw his sword and picked it up.
‘This time you’re staying dead,’ he said to Braith’s corpse and he hacked down once, twice, the third time Braith’s head rolling free from his body.
Meg emerged from the reeds and ran to him, throwing her arms about his waist, hugging him tight. He ruffled her hair.
‘You did good, girlie, think I might just owe you my life, there.’
‘There’s no think about it,’ she said, grinning up at him.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
HAELAN
Haelan searched the stables, Pots running at his heels, his tail wagging furiously. He looked inside every single stall – and there were literally hundreds of them, over half of them occupied with horses.
She won’t be in one of those. He slammed another door shut, frowning. An empty one. By the time he reached the last stable he was sweating, despite the cold that seemed to seep through even walls of stone.
Winter is upon us. It was the Snow Moon and winter was holding Drassil in its tight and frozen grip.
Where is she?
He was looking for Storm, had overheard Corban talking of his wolven, how she was heavy with cubs, and if the birth cycle for a wolven was anything like a hound’s then she should be whelping any day now. And then she’d disappeared.
She’s in her den, ready to whelp, Coralen had said to Corban.
Haelan had been running chores in Cywen’s hospice, a huge building situated to the west of the fortress, close to the herb gardens that grew within the walls. Coralen had been sitting beside one of the Jehar, a dark-haired woman lying in a cot with her leg in a splint and bandages. Slowly the conversation had drifted towards Storm, and the fact that she was missing.
That’s what I thought, Corban had said. I need to find her. I remember Da helping a bitch whelp; there can be all kinds of problems.
Corban had sounded so worried that Haelan had decided on the spot that he would find Storm and her den, and had been searching ever since.
He left the stables disappointed; he’d been convinced they would make the perfect hideaway for Storm, and began to wander the fortress aimlessly.
I’ll never find her in this place. Someone could hide for a moon, every single person here searching for them.
Slowly he walked through ancient stone streets, past windows with the glow of warm fires filling them, then through courtyards and streets with empty buildings and dark windows. He pulled his cloak tighter about him, his breath misting, before eventually stopping in a courtyard.
He sat on a huge twisted root that broke through the stone of the courtyard like the spine of a great sea beast and fished around in his pockets for some food. He found half a biscuit, broke it, throwing half to Pots, then chewed on the rest.
He’d come to a strange conclusion. For most of the time that he had lived at Gramm’s hold his thoughts had ever returned to his mam, to Jael, to the throne of Isiltir, and he remembered spending days plo
tting his vengeance upon Jael, or how things would be different when he was king, or how he would make someone else do his chores. He didn’t think like that any more, couldn’t remember the last time anything like that had crossed his mind. After much thought he’d decided that there was only one conclusion to be reached about that.
I’m happy. At first he’d felt guilty about that realization, his mam’s face springing instantly to mind. I shouldn’t be happy. She gave her life for me, so that I could one day be king. But he didn’t want to be king any more, not really. He wanted Corban to be king instead. Never had he come upon a man whom he thought so highly of. From his first words Corban had made him feel himself, made him feel that he didn’t have to pretend to be anything. And he liked that. And Corban was everything that he imagined a king should be. A skilled warrior, courageous – he’d heard the tales about him, fighting demons, wyrms and wolven, setting slaves free, and he’d saved Wulf and the others at Gramm’s hold. Despite all this, and the demands on him, he made sure he had time for everyone who sought him out, always listening to their problems, big or small.
Pots whined behind him and he threw the dog some more biscuit.
And when Haelan spoke to Corban, he felt that he listened, really listened to what he had to say. No one else had ever treated him like that, even Tahir, whom he loved like an older brother. He always looked at Haelan as if he was a duty he had to fulfil.
Which I suppose I am, to Tahir. To a shieldman.
His happiness had been tarnished with the recent news, though. A warband had been spotted, creeping in from the north-west, building a road. They were almost on a direct course for Drassil, though of course moons away as they had literally to cut their way through the forest.
It’s Jael, I know it is. Am I never allowed to be happy while he draws breath?
Tahir had told him that Corban had led a few raids on the enemy camp, using the trapdoors situated along the tunnels – not large attacks, but hunting down their scouts and stragglers, and Tahir said that Corban and those with him had dressed in wolven furs, killed with their gauntleted claws.
Pots whined again behind him, scratched at something. Haelan rooted around for some more biscuit but couldn’t find any.
‘Sorry, boy,’ he said as he turned around to stroke the dog, then saw what he was whining at.
Beneath the curve of the root was what looked like a pool of shadow, but as Haelan looked closer he saw that it was more than that. It was a hole.
Pots was digging in a mound of loose earth spread before it.
Haelan crawled up to the hole, saw that it was bigger than him, bigger than a full-grown man. He stuck his head inside, saw the root twisting and boring its way into the dark earth. Then the ground crumbled beneath him and he fell in, head first, sliding and rolling, soil getting in his face, his mouth. He came to a crunching halt, falling onto the root, the earth around it eroded away by rain and frost so that it made a kind of cavern, large enough for him to stand, if he stooped. Daylight seeped into the hole, enough for him to see that the root branched left and right. Pots was looking down at him, tail wagging.
‘It’s not a game,’ he muttered, then, figuring he may as well explore while he was down here, he crawled to the left, following the root. Abruptly the root took a sudden twist, arcing down, almost vertically, and Haelan stopped. A strange smell leaked up from the hole here, strong and acidic, like rotting vegetables mixed with . . . something else. Whatever it was, he wanted to get away from it, the smell feeling like fingers clawing their way into his mouth. He shuffled back along the root; the smell receded, and soon he was at the point where he’d fallen in. Pots started barking at him when he came into view. He decided to go the other way now, enjoying the thought that he’d found something new in this ancient fortress, something that only he knew about.
It could be my den, he thought, my secret place.
Den?
Then, from the darkness in front of him, he heard a low, terrifying growl. He froze. The growling rumbled on, then faded, and behind it he heard something else. A squeaking sound.
He shuffled back along the root as fast as he could, stood on tiptoes to climb out, jumped and caught hold of the edge, pulling and scrambling to get out. Leaping to his feet, he sprinted around a corner and saw Tahir marching purposefully towards him, pointing at him.
‘I’ve been searching everywhere for you,’ Tahir said as Haelan ran past him.
‘Can’t stop,’ he blurted, not even slowing, heard the sound of slapping feet as Tahir ran after him.
He found Corban in the weapons court, holding sword and shield and sparring with Wulf. Gar stood watching them, his arms folded across his chest and a frown upon his face.
Haelan skidded to a halt, desperate to tell Corban his news, but saw he was in the middle of something with Gar.
‘I’m not saying you should not train with a shield,’ Gar said, ‘only that I will not.’
‘Why don’t you like using a shield?’ Wulf asked him.
Without saying anything Gar strode to Wulf, grabbed the shield rim wide with both hands and twisted. Wulf yelled in pain.
‘If I twist this shield another handspan your arm will break,’ Gar said matter-of-factly. ‘For a weapon that is supposed to protect you, it can be easily used to defeat you.’ He let go and Wulf stepped away, wincing. ‘The best defence is a good offence.’ Gar shrugged. ‘I’ve seen a shield used well when it is strapped tight to your back.’
‘Halion,’ Corban said.
‘Aye,’ Gar nodded. ‘It can be well used if you use a spin to manoeuvre around your foe, to protect your back and come out of the spin with some momentum for an attack.’
‘Show us,’ Wulf said.
Corban glanced away and saw Haelan, almost jumping up and down beside the weapons court in his excitement.
‘What is it?’ Corban asked him.
‘Storm,’ Haelan gasped. ‘I’ve found her.’
Haelan stood in the courtyard with the tree root, a small crowd about him.
Corban slipped into the hole, his hand appearing and Gar passing him a torch, then Gar disappeared into the hole as well. Haelan heard a muffled protest from Corban followed by Gar’s flat refusal, then silence. More silence, then a rumbling snarl that mutated into a snapping, slavering growl that made the ground vibrate and Pots whine and hide behind Haelan’s legs.
A moment later Gar’s head appeared out of the hole and he climbed out.
‘Don’t think she wants me down there,’ Gar said with as much dignity as he could muster as he stood, dusting himself down.
‘What about Ban?’ Coralen asked.
‘Oh, he’s fine, Storm’s licking him like she hasn’t seen him for a moon.’
‘And is Storm all right? Has she had cubs?’
‘Oh aye,’ Gar said. ‘She’s right as rain. And she’s had six cubs. She’s even letting Corban touch them. Me, on the other hand, she wanted to rip my head off just for looking at them.’
Tahir pulled Haelan away and looked at him sternly. ‘What if you’d got stuck down there?’ Tahir asked him.
Haelan knew the shieldman was angry with him, but proud of him too. He’d been brave, and he’d done something no one else had been able to do.
‘I didn’t, though,’ Haelan said.
‘What if you had?’ Tahir frowned at him.
‘Fools worry, the wise do, as your old mam used to say.’
Tahir blinked at him.
‘You’re getting too clever for your own good,’ the shieldman muttered.
Haelan grinned.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
FIDELE
Fidele gazed in wonder at the trees shadowing both sides of the road she was riding on. They dwarfed anything she had ever seen before, thick as a house and high as a tower, their dense layers of branches reaching above and over the road, weaving and interlocking to form a latticed archway above them, weak sunlight occasionally breaking through to dapple the ground with pools of light.
So this is Forn.
It had been a long, hard journey, taking them almost three moons to reach Forn Forest. First they had crossed the Agullas Mountains into Carnutan, then ever northwards, across great plains, through rolling hills and snow-swept valleys until they crossed from Carnutan into Isiltir. A ten-night gone they had reached Mikil, only to find that Nathair had ridden east towards Forn a moon before them. So they followed him. All six thousand of them, give or take the few score that had died along the journey, succumbing to the bitter cold. She glanced over her shoulder, glimpsed Maquin riding amidst a circle of eagle-guard.
Not him, though. I knew he would not die.
At first Maquin had lain in a wain, semi-conscious and delirious from the pain of his wounds, Alben tending to him while they travelled, but he had been on the back of a horse for over a moon now. Their eyes would meet frequently, though always briefly, both of them mindful of Alben’s advice and the charges that she was accused of. They were never allowed close enough to speak, Veradis’ eagle-guard rigorous in their duties. Fidele did not mind so much, as she knew the same devotion to duty would keep Lykos and his Vin Thalun away from Maquin.
What they have done to him. She could still see the burns when she closed her eyes, could remember the smell of charred flesh as she’d entered Maquin’s chamber back in Jerolin. Not for the first time a swell of rage filled her, coalescing about an image of Lykos in her mind. In it he was smiling at her.
I will see him dead. I will convince Nathair of the Vin Thalun’s crimes.
Part of her was desperate for this journey to be over, so that the long-prolonged and avoided justice that Lykos deserved could finally be meted out, but part of her dreaded the journey’s end, because then Maquin would stand judgement for his crime, and she could not see any other outcome than death for him, even with the mother of the high king pleading his cause. She felt a fist of worry clench in her belly just at the thought of it.
