by John Gwynne
Then Alcyon’s huge hand clamped upon his arm. Veradis kicked Calidus in the chest, sent the Kadoshim stumbling backwards, tripping over the chest and falling into the huge fireplace.
Calidus screamed as flames exploded in a roar about him, engulfing him. Alcyon hauled Veradis back a pace, twisting his arm, forcing him to his knees, pain screaming through his arm as tendons tore and sinew ripped, the shoulder close to dislocating.
‘Do what you will to me,’ Veradis snarled. ‘Your master is dead.’
Alcyon just stared grimly at the fireplace and blazing flames.
A figure appeared amongst the roaring flames, man-like, for a moment the likeness of dark, shadowy wings unfurling about him. Then Calidus staggered out from the fire’s embrace, stepped onto the cold stone of his chamber. His cloak was ablaze, his silver hair scorched black or burned away, and the flesh on his face was peeling and charred.
He undid the brooch of his cloak, let it slip to the ground, swatted at a flame on his sleeve. Annoyed and almost amused.
‘As you can see, I am quite hard to kill,’ Calidus said, voice deeper, harsher.
Veradis just stared at him in horror, his eyes drawn to his knife still buried deep in Calidus’ belly. Calidus wrapped blistered fingers around the hilt and pulled it out, growling with pain like a wounded animal. He held the blade up between two fingers, grimaced and threw it over his shoulder.
‘Well done,’ Calidus said. ‘It takes a rare man to get past my guard – and my guardian.’ He shot a black look at Alcyon.
Veradis glowered at him, felt a surge of pure hatred for this man, this creature before him. The one who had corrupted everything, his friend, his whole world.
Calidus met his gaze and sighed.
‘I can see we’re not going to get anywhere with you,’ he said. ‘A shame.’ He shrugged. ‘Alcyon, kill him.’
Veradis stared into the giant’s eyes, part of him wanting death, welcoming it.
I deserve it. The wise man lives a long life, the fool dies a thousand deaths.
‘I am sorry, True-Heart,’ Alcyon whispered and slowly raised his war-hammer.
‘Who were those giants to you?’ Veradis asked him.
Alcyon paused.
‘Kill him,’ Calidus hissed.
‘What?’ Alcyon rumbled.
‘Those giants during the trial. Who were they to you?’
Alcyon’s face twitched, muscles spasming. His lip trembled. A tear rolled from one dark eye.
‘My wife. My son.’
‘They are free,’ Veradis whispered.
‘You lie,’ Calidus sneered, though an edge of doubt showed in his voice.
‘I set them free,’ Veradis said, fixing Alcyon with his gaze. ‘Saw them walk out through Brikan’s gates.’
‘Alcyon, kill him.’
Alcyon’s arm hovered over Veradis. It shook, as if caught by an invisible force.
‘No,’ the giant whispered.
‘No?’ Calidus frowned. He and Alcyon glared at one another, beads of sweat breaking out upon both of their brows. Time passed – a dozen heartbeats, a hundred, Veradis did not know. Eventually Calidus turned away, threw open the lid to the chest before the fire and reached inside. Veradis saw more of the clay figures contained within and suddenly remembered Fidele’s explanation of Lykos’ enchantment.
All I know is that he had a doll, a clay figure, a strand of my hair set within it, she had said. When Maquin fought Lykos at the arena it was crushed underfoot, destroyed, and immediately the chains within my mind were broken.
Veradis swept a leg out and kicked the chest into the fire. The flames flared about it, smoke billowing, the smell of burning hair wafting about them.
‘You fool,’ Calidus snarled, a feral rage twisting his face, and he drew his sword.
Alcyon swung his hammer into Calidus’ chest, hurling him back against a wall. He slid to the ground, the wall cracked, fragments of stone falling about him. Slowly Calidus stood, shook his head.
‘Legion,’ he roared, his voice like a storm wind, and the door burst open, the two Jehar surging in. Veradis heard the buzzing of flies.
Veradis stood on shaky legs, the pain in his shoulder still screaming at him. He reached for his sword hilt.
Then a huge arm was wrapping about his waist, lifting him and carrying him across the room in great bounding strides. Towards the open window, Alcyon’s foot on the sill, launching them out into open air and darkness. Then they were falling, tumbling, wind snatching his breath away, still held tight in Alcyon’s iron grip, the black waters of the river below rushing up to meet him.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
EVNIS
Evnis sat in the tower on the northern border of the marshlands and brooded.
There had been no sign of Braith.
He left over a moon ago, and still no word. Yet Evnis trusted Braith – when it came to hunting, anyway. It was not the finding of Edana and her little band of rebels that concerned him, it was what he would do once he knew where they were. Once he had them.
Edana’s easy, of course. She has to die. And apparently the bitch-wife of Eremon is with her, and her idiot son, who has a claim to the throne of Domhain. Rhin won’t like the thought of him still breathing, so he’ll have to die as well.
No, they were all simple.
All of it is simple, in fact. Kill everyone. Except . . .
Except his son.
What will I do with Vonn?
He loved his son, of that there was no doubt. And if there ever had been any doubt of that he had resolved the situation when against all judgement he’d stood up in a field full of enemies and called out his son’s name.
But now men were talking about him. He knew by the looks as he passed, the whispers. They are saying I am weak. That my love for my son is a vulnerability, that I am a risk, a danger. What if it happens again, they say, and our position is revealed?
I must prove them wrong. Show them my strength. A ruler’s power is his reputation. I cannot afford to be considered weak. Rhin hears all, and if she hears that . . .
He sipped from a small cup of usque, the liquor smooth and sweet, warming his belly, the glow spreading.
There was a knock at his door, it was Glyn his shieldman. ‘Someone comes from the marsh, my lord.’ About bloody time. Braith at last.
It was Rafe.
Evnis stood on the wall above the gates, watching a boat slip through the marsh waters, a man inside leaping ashore and tying the boat off. A bag was slung across his back, which he set on the ground while he saw to the boat. Two hounds ran along the riverbank.
Why is he alone?
Evnis decided that he no longer liked waiting – it feels as if I have been waiting my whole life.
Evnis was almost at the riverbank when Rafe started walking towards him. The lad had been squatting beside his boat, patting his two hounds.
Sentimental boy. Not like his father.
Rafe’s expression sent different signals to Evnis. He was feeling too impatient to work them out himself.
‘Tell me,’ he said simply.
‘Braith’s dead,’ the young huntsman said, ‘and all the others. We were hunted down by that Camlin.’
Evnis felt a muscle twitch in his cheek.
‘So, a complete disaster, then.’
‘Not exactly. I escaped, then followed them back to Dun Crin. I know where it is, can guide you there.’
Evnis grinned. ‘That, my lad, is wonderful news. You said them. You followed them.’
‘I did,’ Rafe said. ‘Camlin had help. Vonn.’
‘Vonn helped hunt Braith down and kill him?’
‘Aye. But he let me go. He could have killed me, always been better with a blade than me. He let me go.’
‘Why?’
‘He asked me to give you a message.’ Rafe looked at Glyn.
‘Go on, lad, Glyn’s good at keeping secrets.’
‘Said when you come for Dun Crin, and he knows you will, that he
wants to talk to you.’
Evnis felt a rising hope.
‘Did he now? Did he say what about?’
‘He said he wants to talk to you about the God-War, the Seven Treasures, and the necklace of Nemain.’
Evnis was stunned to silence, almost took a step back at that.
‘Someone is coming,’ Glyn said into the silence, looking back up the hill. ‘I think it’s Morcant.’
It was, the young warrior striding with his usual grace and arrogance, a handful of warriors behind him.
More peacocks, like their master, though with lesser plumage.
‘What news?’ Morcant asked as he approached.
How is it that he even makes a question sound arrogant?
‘Edana and her rabble have been found. We will set out on the morrow,’ Evnis said, trying to sound as indifferent as possible.
‘Good,’ Morcant said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m overdue a good fight.’
Evnis sat near the head of a long barge, thirty warriors about him. It was early, the sun not yet burning off morning’s mist, wisps of it curling about the river, coiling up and over the side of the barge. Evnis shivered.
Morcant sat in the boat behind him, looking every bit the hero in his black and gold war-gear.
How I despise him.
And behind Morcant the boats of their small fleet were filling; fifty vessels, bought, stolen, built, not all of them as big as the one he was sitting in, but they carried over five hundred men between them.
More than enough to crush this rebellion.
The sensible voice in his head told him to wait for the extra men to arrive from Dun Carreg, a few hundred at least. Enough to make the outcome of this conflict a foregone conclusion. He knew that this was riskier, but had justified it, claiming that they must strike hard and fast now, before Edana’s rabble grew, and that if they did not strike now there would be a high risk of Edana’s rebels just moving base, and then they would never find them.
So it has to be now, Evnis had argued.
Good arguments, and true, to a point. But they are not the reason I am ordering an immediate strike.
I need to see my son, and resolve this once and for all.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CORBAN
Corban woke to a knocking at his door. For a moment he did not know where he was. Then he remembered.
Drassil. And today we fight.
An enemy warband had been spied in the forest some moons ago, identified as Jael and the warriors of Isiltir. Kadoshim had also been seen amongst them. Since then Coralen and her scouts had kept track of it, and many night-time raids had issued from the tunnels in an attempt to whittle down the numbers and spread fear amongst the survivors. Yet still they had forged on, a few thousand swords, coming to Drassil to kill them.
And today they will be here. At the gates of Drassil.
The knocking sounded on the door again and he rose, shivered as his bare feet met the cold stone floor.
It was before dawn, grey light seeping through windows, the orange glow of embers in his fire seemingly the only colour in the room. He pulled his breeches on and padded to the door.
Brina was stood outside with a bowl in her hand, other faces behind her: Cywen, Dath, Farrell, Gar and Coralen. Buddai’s tail thumped on the floor at the sight of him. Without waiting for Corban to say anything Brina pushed past him, the others following. They were all dressed in their war gear, gleaming with iron and leather and wood.
‘Eat this,’ Brina said, pushing him into a chair and passing him the bowl filled to the brim with steaming porridge.
‘Has it got honey in it?’ He frowned. ‘I don’t like porridge without honey.’
‘Told you,’ Cywen said as she picked up one of Corban’s boots and began hunting for the other.
‘Yes, it has,’ said Brina, unusually patient.
He tasted some suspiciously, then smiled and ate.
‘Almost as good as Mam’s,’ he said as he finished, scraping the bowl. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’
‘We just wanted to see you, before . . .’ Cywen said, who had collected a pile of clothes together and laid them upon his bed.
‘Before people start stabbing each other,’ Brina finished for her.
They all came and sat around him.
‘We’ve come a long way, eh?’ he said.
‘Aye, we have,’ Gar nodded gravely.
He looked at all of their faces, so many memories rushing up with each of them, warming his heart. Too many memories to begin to mention. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said.
‘Neither do I,’ said Brina, her eyes shining.
‘That’s a first,’ Dath whispered, too loudly, as always.
Brina glared at him.
‘Apart from one thing,’ Corban said. ‘And it is that I love you all. Would give my life gladly for any one of you.’
Gar stood and leaned forward, put his hands on Corban’s cheeks and kissed his forehead. ‘We love you too, Ban,’ he said, the others murmuring agreement. ‘And we are proud of you. And your mam and da would burst with that pride if they could see you now.’
‘Well,’ Corban said, sniffing, ‘I did not think I would start the day with tears.’ He smiled as he rubbed at his eyes.
‘Me neither,’ Brina said, wiping her own eyes. ‘Now come on, best get you dressed; we haven’t got all day.’
‘Dressed?’
‘Aye. Farrell’s brought you a nice shiny new shirt, Coralen’s sharpened and polished your wolven claws, I even got my stitching needle out.’
They helped him dress for war.
Farrell smiled when Corban put his arms and head into the shirt of mail.
‘It’s lighter than the one I’ve been training in,’ Corban said as he rolled his shoulders, ‘and it fits better. Much better.’
‘Laith helped me,’ Farrell confessed. ‘She’s an amazing smith.’ He patted Corban on the back, staggering him as Brina slipped his arm-ring over the shirt-sleeve, Farrell squeezing it tight around Corban’s upper arm. A leather bracer was buckled around his right forearm, sewn with strips of iron, then Gar unfolded a black surcoat, an emblem upon its front. A white star with four points, like the north star.
‘Brina made this for you,’ Gar said.
‘In case you forget you’re the Bright Star, which I wouldn’t put past you,’ Brina muttered.
How can she manage to call me the Bright Star of prophecy and insult me with the same breath?
Corban just looked at them as Gar slipped it over his head and Cywen buckled his belt around it, adjusting his sheathed sword. ‘I remember me and Mam making that scabbard, and we wound the leather on your sword hilt,’ she said.
‘Aye, you did.’ Corban felt a lump in his throat stopping any more words coming out.
‘Da made your sword,’ Cywen continued, ‘and your torc.’ Brina slipped that around Corban’s neck, the two wolven-head ends a comforting weight.
Coralen lifted his left hand, slipped the wolven-claw gauntlet on and buckled it tight. ‘Don’t try and scratch your chin with this hand,’ she said as she adjusted the buckles over the mail shirt-sleeve, ‘I’ve sharpened your claws. Think they’d cut iron right now.’
She slipped his wolven cloak about his shoulders, fastening the brooch and pausing to look in his eyes, smiling at him.
‘We made you this, as well,’ Dath said, slipping out of the doorway and grunting as he lifted something in the hall. He came back in carrying a shield, iron-rimmed, painted with black pitch, the same white star upon its centre as was upon his surcoat.
‘I know you rarely use a shield,’ Gar said, ‘but you’ve trained hard with one in the weapons court, and it’s better to have one and not need it, than to need one and not have it.’
‘That sounds like something Brina would say,’ Dath commented.
‘And you can always use it like I showed you,’ Gar said, strapping it onto Corban’s back. ‘So that your back is shielded in a me
lee. Which may happen today.’ He shook it, made sure the strap was tight.
They all stepped back and looked at him.
‘Thank you, all of you,’ Corban said.
‘You look almost like a hero, if I don’t say so myself,’ said Cywen.
Brina looked up at the window, sunlight streaming in now.
‘Time to go,’ she said.
They filed out of the room, Corban walking last, Buddai rising in the corridor to greet them. As he reached the doorway Coralen turned back to him, stopped him with a hand on his chest. She gripped a fistful of his surcoat and pulled him hard towards her and before he knew what was happening her lips were against his, warm and fierce. The world shrank to the two of them, for a few heartbeats all else fading as he kissed her back, then she was pushing away from him, turning her back, taking long strides to catch up with the others.
He stood there a moment, breathless, blinking, the faint taste of apples from her lips lingering, then he shook his head and followed after her.
Stairs wound about Drassil’s trunk and they walked in silence down to the great chamber’s stone floor, boots echoing. Gar and the rest of them paused, letting Corban walk ahead, and they followed close behind him.
Balur One-Eye was standing before the throne of Skald, the ancient King’s skeleton transfixed by the spear a constant reminder of the centuries of war that had spiralled from that one moment. Balur’s tattoo of thorns wound dark about both of his bare forearms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of a chainmail shirt; the starstone axe lay black and brooding upon his back. Ethlinn and the might of the Benothi stood behind him, grim and dour in leather, fur and iron. War-hammers and axes glinted. Even the giantlings were there, all ready for war. Corban saw Laith amongst them, her belts criss-crossing her torso, like Cywen, bristling with knives. Balur nodded to Corban and they followed silently behind him.
The great doors opened before Corban, light streaming in. A handful of the Jehar waited for him there, led by Hamil, dressed in black shirts of mail, swords strapped to their backs, each one wearing a black surcoat with a white star upon their chests. They parted for Corban and, as he strode through their midst, closed up behind him. He saw children standing in the shadows, running along with them. Haelan was one of them, his white ratter at his heels, and Corban beckoned him over, not breaking his stride.
