by John Gwynne
‘I have a task for you, if you would help me,’ Corban said to the lad.
‘Of course,’ Haelan breathed, his face shining with pride, ‘I’ll do anything to help.’
‘Good. Follow me, then.’
Corban led them through the streets of Drassil, not straight to the gates, but eastward, through a less-inhabited part of the fortress, finally stopping in a courtyard where the ground was ruptured by thick roots.
‘Storm,’ Corban called out as a silence fell in the square. His voice echoed back from the stone walls all about, and before it had faded Storm leaped out from the hole beneath the tree root and padded up to Corban, nuzzling his chest with her scarred muzzle. He buried his face in the fur of her neck.
More shapes emerged from the darkness of the hole: six cubs, running and bouncing to their mother’s legs, standing in the shadow beneath her bulk. They were close to three moons old now, more balls of fur with teeth than anything else.
‘Storm, I need you with me today. So I’ll leave some friends to guard your cubs.’ Corban looked at Haelan. ‘Think you can do that for me?’
‘Aye,’ Haelan beamed, scooping one of the cubs up in his arms.
‘I thought so, as I’ve seen you visiting these cubs every day and luring them out with scraps of food. Thought they might be happiest with you.’
Haelan’s smile grew, if that was possible. ‘Think I might need some help, though,’ he added as he tried to scoop another cub up and missed.
‘Wulf’s bairns will help you,’ Corban said, then turned to leave.
‘Not you, Tahir,’ Haelan said. ‘I give you permission to go and fight today, not stand around in here watching me.’
Tahir smiled and ruffled Haelan’s hair.
‘Storm, with me,’ Corban said and strode from the courtyard. Storm hesitated a moment, looking between Corban and her cubs, then padded after Corban.
‘And, Tahir,’ Haelan called out after them, ‘bring me Jael’s head.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Tahir muttered behind Corban.
The rest of the warband were waiting for Corban before Drassil’s great gates, the converted bear pens edging the courtyard. Although the plan was to remain inside the walls, horses were saddled and harnessed, prepared for any eventuality. Corban heard Shield whinny when he entered the courtyard, calling out to him.
A great host stood before the gates, every last man and woman who could wield a sword, and standing in front of them was Meical. Today he looked like one of the Ben-Elim from the tales of the Scourging, tall and commanding in a coat of gleaming mail, his dark hair tied back in a severe knot. He half-bowed to Corban as he led his followers to the gate.
‘The Bright Star,’ Meical called out, his voice ringing from the stone walls, drowned by a great roar from the warband.
Corban climbed a dozen steps on the wall, then stopped and looked about at them all, hundreds of faces staring back at him. A mixture of fear, of pride, of determination. Brave men and women, all touched, scarred in some way by Asroth and his servants.
I am dreaming. How has life come to this?
He took a deep breath.
‘We have been hunted, hounded, our kin slain, our friends murdered. We have travelled hundreds of leagues, fled the dark tide that is sweeping this land. But no more. Today we stand. Today we fight. Now that’s a tale our kin will be proud to tell.’
The courtyard rang with cheering. It slowly faded to an echo.
‘Win or lose, live or die, I am proud to stand beside you.’
A great roar rose up from the courtyard then, feet stamping, spears banging on shields, swords on bucklers. As it died a new sound rang out. Horns blasted from the walls above.
They are here.
Corban felt a jolt of fear, his guts turning to water for a few heartbeats. He ground his jaw, refusing to let it rule him.
He drew his sword and held it high over his head. ‘Truth and courage!’ he yelled, punching the sky, then turned and strode up the steps to Drassil’s wall. The courtyard rang with the echo of a thousand voices yelling the same battle-cry as they all went to find their places.
‘That’s a lot of men,’ Dath commented in Corban’s ear.
It is.
Thousands of warriors were pouring out of the trees to the north-west of the fortress, spilling into the open space like blood from a wound, gathering into a thick pool, edging forwards.
From this distance Corban could make out little detail, just a mass of iron and leather, red cloaks and fur. Most of the warband were on foot, and the disconcerting thing was that they just kept on appearing, more and more of them emerging from the shadows of Forn. Eventually riders appeared, a banner held aloft, a lightning bolt with a pale serpent wrapped around it.
I like my banner better, thought Corban, looking up to see the bright star on a black field snapping from the gate tower above him.
Slowly the warband moved southwards, skirting the edge of the land cleared over the last few moons, until they were massed about a thousand paces from Drassil’s only gates. Then they began to edge closer, a semi-organized line stretching the width of the western wall, ten men deep at least. Corban began to make out details, the most troubling of which was the number of long timber ladders he spied being carried amongst their ranks.
‘Two and a half thousand swords,’ Gar whispered behind him.
Five hundred paces out and horn blasts rang from the cluster of riders, the warband rippling to a halt, a silence settling heavy upon them all.
‘Is it just me, or is there a lot of waiting in war?’ Dath muttered.
‘Aye, you’re right,’ Farrell replied. ‘Usually followed by a lot of dying.’
Dath took a deep breath.
‘That’s comforting.’
‘Here to help,’ Farrell muttered.
Hearing Dath and Farrell’s bickering actually helped to calm Corban’s nerves, something familiar in this most unfamiliar of circumstances.
The other battles seemed to just happen – Dun Carreg, Murias, Gramm’s hold. This waiting and watching is worse.
Four riders separated from the others, riding at a steady pace towards the gates of Drassil, one clearly the leader, his horsehair plume tugged by the wind – must be Jael, the self-appointed King of Isiltir – another held Isiltir’s banner, the third appearing to be a shieldman, obviously a warrior, sitting his saddle with an easy grace and clothed similarly to the other two, in red cloak, black cuirass and iron helm, sword at his hip, spear in one hand. The fourth appeared elderly, hunched over his saddle and wrapped in a voluminous cloak, the hood pulled up.
A loremaster, perhaps, come to tell me that I have no legal claim to be fighting against the King of Isiltir.
They rode steadily closer.
At least it looks as if the waiting’s over.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
ULFILAS
Ulfilas rode one side of Jael, his first-sword Fram upon the other, their cloaked and hunched companion close behind them. As they drew nearer Ulfilas looked up at the walls of Drassil, the great tree towering behind them, its branches unfurling like some giant organic shield that touched the clouds.
The gates were huge, constructs of weathered oak and iron, as tall as a house from Mikil, and looked as thick as a wall. On the wall above, warriors stood in silent rows, peering down on them. Here and there Ulfilas saw the huge proportions of a giant.
Never thought I’d wish for the company of Ildaer and his Jotun. Where is he, the traitorous coward? Over a dozen messengers had been sent north into the Desolation in search of Ildaer and his giants. Not a sight or sound had been heard of them since the disaster at Gramm’s hold, and eventually Jael had tired of sending messengers.
On one of the gate towers a banner rippled; as Ulfilas drew nearer he was able to make out a rayed white star upon a black field.
In the crook of his arm Ulfilas held the banner of Isiltir, the wind trying to rip it from his grip.
White star against the
storm and serpent.
They were three or four hundred paces from the gates now, still closer to their warband than to the walls of Drassil, but nevertheless Ulfilas was starting to feel a little intimidated by the sheer scale of them.
Are our ladders even tall enough?
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Ulfilas asked Jael, who sat straight and confident in his saddle.
Jael reined his horse in and cupped his hands about his mouth.
Too late.
‘Who leads this rabble?’ Jael called out, voice sounding small and insignificant as it battered against Drassil’s walls. No answer came back to them.
‘I’ve heard a name, and a title,’ Jael called. ‘Corban. Bright Star. Are you up there, Corban, but too scared to speak with me.’
He’s always had a natural ability to get under the skin, has Jael.
‘I’m here,’ a voice came down to them.
‘I’ve a proposition for you, Bright Star,’ Jael shouted, managing to make the title sound like an insult. ‘I’ve a lot of men under my care, and no doubt you’ve a fair few with you inside those walls. How about we decide this the old way, and spare the blood of thousands of men. Spare their lives.’
Silence.
‘You against my champion. Winner takes the field.’
More silence.
‘I’d wager that that has set the cat amongst the wood pigeons,’ Jael whispered to Ulfilas.
‘You lie,’ another voice drifted down.
I recognize that voice.
A face peered over the wall. Wulf.
‘Ahh, the son of Gramm,’ Jael called out. ‘How are your hands?’
I think he’s genuinely enjoying this.
‘You will die today, Jael. As will your lackey, Ulfilas.’
Well, I did spill his da’s guts before his very eyes. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t angry.
‘Be quiet, you insignificant oaf,’ Jael called back. ‘I’m talking to your leader, not you.’
Curses drifted down and then Wulf’s face disappeared.
‘I do not lie,’ Jael said. ‘I swear an oath, before my people and any powers that deign to listen. If you defeat my champion I shall withdraw and leave you in peace.’
‘I’ll fight you,’ the first voice came down to them.
‘Ahh, tempting,’ Jael said, ‘but, no. I am a king. I have a champion, whereas you are no king, but profess to be a champion. The champion of Elyon, no less; or am I mistaken? That is what the prophecy says, does it not?’
More silence.
‘So if you are the champion you claim to be, then come down here. Fight my champion, and spare the lives of your followers.’
Jael turned and grinned at Ulfilas. ‘Either way, we win here. If he refuses, he loses the respect of his warband – they will not fight so fiercely for someone who had an opportunity to save them and chose not to. And if he comes down here, he dies. Their Bright Star. That will rip the heart out of this warband. They may even surrender after that.’
I’ll give it to Jael, he is a canny one.
‘But what if he comes down here and wins?’ Ulfilas said.
Jael just pulled a face at him. ‘Win? Please.’ Then he frowned as he thought about it a few moments, finally shrugging. ‘If he wins we’ll just kill him, anyway. He won’t get back to those gates before my mounted shieldmen could catch him.’
‘That may inspire some anger amongst his warband, rather than dishearten them.’
‘It may, you’re right. But he’d still be dead, and that is the most important goal here, Ulfilas. To kill a snake you cut off the head.’
‘I’m coming down,’ the Bright Star’s voice drifted down to them.
The gates opened with a grating of iron and oak and a lone figure stepped out. They closed behind him with a booming thud as he strode purposefully towards them.
‘He looks quite confident,’ Jael remarked.
‘He does,’ Ulfilas agreed.
The four of them waited in silence as the lone warrior approached them.
So this is the Bright Star that Nathair is so scared of. Corban. He is younger than I expected.
He was young, his face smooth-skinned apart from the short dark stubble of a beard. He walked with the easy gait of a warrior, of average height, broad at the shoulder, thick at the chest, slim at the waist, built more like a blacksmith, to Ulfilas’ mind.
He’s well dressed, though, Ulfilas thought, admiring his war gear. A well-fitting coat of mail, leather and iron on his wrists and feet, shield slung across his back and a large hand-and-a-half sword at his hip.
A big sword, too big to use single-handed. Strong but slow.
Ulfilas had seen this type many times before, strong but slow, their strength often their worst enemy, relying upon it to batter their opponents into defeat. He saw a strange weapon strapped to Corban’s left hand, like a three-pronged knife bound into a leather gauntlet.
Like claws. Ulfilas remembered the wounds on many of those who had been slain in the night-time raids during the journey through Forn.
Something glinted on his arm, an arm-ring spiralling around his bicep, gleaming with silver.
Jael will want that once this man is dead.
He stopped about fifty paces from them, regarding them with dark, serious eyes.
‘I am here, then.’ Corban drew his sword almost without having seemed to move, his feet shifting, balance perfect. He rolled his shoulders.
Maybe not so slow, then.
‘Brave of you,’ Jael commented, ‘and trusting.’
Not so trusting, that’s why he stopped over fifty paces away from us.
Corban shrugged. ‘Let’s get on with this.’
‘Not a conversationalist, then,’ Jael said. ‘As you wish.’ He pulled on his reins and kicked his horse, turning to ride back to the warband. Ulfilas and Fram followed. Ulfilas looked back over his shoulder, saw the surprise on Corban’s face as Fram rode away, then saw his expression change as the fourth member of their party slid from his horse and dropped his cloak.
This will most likely be over before we are back amongst our warband.
It was Sumur.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CORBAN
For a heartbeat Corban froze, numb, shocked, then a jolt of fear hit him.
Sumur. Kadoshim.
I’m going to die.
I should have listened to Gar and Meical and not accepted Jael’s challenge. Gar had insisted on accepting the duel, said that he was Corban’s champion, that he had stood guard over him since birth, and it wasn’t going to change now.
You can do much for me, Gar, but you cannot be me. Jael is right, I am Elyon’s champion, no other. Gar had just stood there, looking into Corban’s eyes, his face twitching with frustration.
Meical had grabbed Corban, ordered him not to go, and then when it became clear that wasn’t going to work, almost begged. It was the most emotion Corban had ever seen from the Ben-Elim.
But I had no choice. How could I let so many die when I could have done something to stop it?
You tell me I am the Bright Star, Corban had said as Meical had gripped his arm. I must do this. Meical had regarded him with sad eyes, then nodded and let go.
As those behind him recognized who he faced they broke out with shouting and cursing. He recognized Gar’s voice, Dath’s swearing. Could imagine the look of fear on Cywen’s face.
I have to put it out of my mind, he told himself. If I want to last more than a few heartbeats I must put everything out of my mind except his sword.
‘Surprised?’ Sumur said, having crossed over half the distance to Corban, only twenty or thirty paces separating them now.
‘A little,’ Corban muttered, taking a few steps backwards as Sumur strode towards him, inevitable as time.
It seems the Kadoshim have learned a little humour since they entered this world.
‘I am going to carve out your heart and eat it,’ Sumur said, the gap closing between them.
<
br /> Now that’s not so funny.
‘Are you Sumur, or something else?’
‘Sumur is still in here,’ the Kadoshim said, walking closer, his black eyes boring into Corban. ‘All of his knowledge, his skill, the instinctive responses of his body.’ He rolled his wrist as he approached Corban, his blade twirling a slow circle. Corban recognized the movement, remembered seeing him do the same thing back in Dun Carreg, when Gar had faced Sumur, trying to purchase Corban time to escape.
Strange – the body and movement is Sumur’s, but the voice is someone else’s. Not someone, something. And if Gar couldn’t beat him, how in the Otherworld can I?
‘But Sumur does not rule in here, any more.’ The Kadoshim put fingertips to heart and head. ‘I am Belial, captain of Asroth.’
‘I think I’ll just stick with Sumur,’ Corban said, shuffling back another few paces.
Sumur shrugged and continued striding forwards. ‘Will you run from me?’ he asked, his head cocked to one side. ‘I can smell your fear.’
He is not trying to goad me, is just speaking the truth.
‘All men feel fear,’ Corban snarled and surged forwards.
Partly he was just sick of running and wanted to fight, but there was more to his attack than simply a knee-jerk anger. He had half-hoped to catch Sumur by surprise, maybe have half a heartbeat within which to find an opening.
That did not happen.
Corban’s first strike was a two-handed chop at the head, using all his strength, from feet and ankles, through legs into his back, shoulders and arms.
Sumur met the blow easily, almost lazily shrugging it off. Corban’s second, third and fourth blows – a combination that he was sure Gar would have stopped and applauded him for – all met with hard iron. He did manage to stop Sumur’s advance, though, the Kadoshim planting his feet and gripping his blade two-handed. Corban swirled around him, one blow merging into the next, trying to move onto Sumur’s left side.
