by John Gwynne
Rhin laughed and gestured for him to sit. He did, a cup of water already poured for him. He drank, savouring it. Most of the marsh water had been stagnant and rank, even the fresh water was questionable, and usually with something slimy in it. He looked up over the rim of his cup, realizing Rhin and the giant were both staring at him.
‘So,’ Rhin said. ‘Where is Evnis?’
It was not the question he had expected, certainly not the first one, at least. He’d been expecting something more along the lines of What happened?
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
Rhin sighed. ‘Please, it is very important. Think. Hard.’
She looked scary sometimes, and Rafe suddenly remembered sitting with her in a dark room, watching a fire reveal pictures of Halion and Conall in a dungeon far below them. He shivered.
‘He was in his boat, we were on the lake, all rowing at Dun Crin, chasing Edana—’
‘Edana. Dun Crin. Chasing. Good,’ Rhin murmured.
‘Then there was fire – they set traps, started setting the boats on fire.’
‘In a lake!’ Rhin said, not sounding pleased again.
Rafe explained in more detail the battle of Dun Crin, the tactics used against them. He told her how his boat had capsized and how he had swum to the shore.
That wasn’t exactly what happened. I don’t like fire much. I paddled my arms off and got to the lake shore without even getting my feet wet. But then I tried paddling up a stream and men started throwing spears and pots of oil at me. I got wet then, capsized, swam a hundred paces underwater, scrambled out onto the opposite bank and ran like hell.
He told how the battle was lost by then, and he had escaped into the marshes.
‘Hmm,’ Rhin said when he finished, steepling her fingers. ‘That’s not very helpful.’
Rafe shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
‘Not very helpful at all,’ the giant rumbled, which made him jump a little.
‘I’m sorry. I was in front – I led the warband to Dun Crin – and Evnis was right behind me. But then it all went to hell – excuse me – fire and water and blood, and I didn’t see any more of Evnis.’
‘You were the master huntsman?’ Rhin said.
‘Aye.’
‘What of Braith?’
‘Braith’s dead.’
Rhin sat back in her chair at that, looked genuinely dismayed, even as if she might shed a tear.
‘By whose hand?’ she asked, voice like sharp flint.
‘Camlin. He was Braith’s captain from the Darkwood. Gut-shot him, from as far apart as we are.’
‘I’ve heard his name,’ Rhin said with a hiss, ‘and I won’t forget it. And you escaped?’
‘Aye.’
‘You seem to be very good at that,’ Rhin observed.
Can’t blame a man for staying alive, he thought. Can blame him for running, though, I suppose.
He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything, just looked at the cup in his hands.
‘I will want a detailed account of this place, the lake, Dun Crin, a map of the waterways in and out. Everything you remember. And numbers – people. Edana of course. Who else?’
‘Roisin and Lorcan. They were in the boat with Edana.’
Rhin pulled a face at that.
‘Halion.’
‘He made it here, then.’
‘Aye. Vonn.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Evnis’ son.’
Rhin and the giant exchanged a glance. ‘Go on,’ Rhin said.
‘Pendathran. Camlin, I guess, though I don’t recall seeing him at the battle. But he’s a sneaky bastard, probably hiding somewhere and shooting his arrows.’
Just then the sounds of a commotion drifted in through the tent entrance. It was pulled back, warriors entering, standing either side and another figure came in, another warrior, but this one battered and bloody, iron helm dented, a bloodstained bandage around one of his arms.
Morcant.
He saw Rhin and almost ran to her, dropped to one knee before her and kissed her hand. She seemed to like it, by the look on her face.
Should I have done that?
‘My Queen,’ Morcant breathed, ‘I am overjoyed to see you.’
‘Well, I’m quite pleased to see you,’ Rhin said, the smile still flickering upon her lips. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Though you could smell better.’
‘The marsh,’ he said, gesturing, looking offended.
‘Of course. Your smell I can cope with, for the moment. We were just talking to the first survivor of this disaster to return to us.’ Rhin waved at Rafe. ‘You can go now, by the way,’ she said to him. ‘I would talk with Morcant a while. She stroked Morcant’s cheek, running a finger along one of the scars he’d earned in the court of swords.
Rafe was more than happy to leave. He stood up and bowed clumsily, then left the tent.
He collected a skin of watered wine from the kitchens, a shoulder of cold lamb, and walked away from the crowds. Scratcher and Sniffer soon found him and he wandered, somewhat aimlessly, thinking back on Rhin’s questioning and the battle. He reached the river where all of the boats had been moored, where they had set off nearly a moon ago, full of confidence, maybe arrogance. He walked on, following the riverbank, knew where he was going now.
He turned away from the riverbank and walked a way into the marshes, stopping eventually at the husk of a dead tree. He walked round behind it to where its roots had cracked the ground, got down on his hands and knees and reached into a dark hole beneath a root. His hand scrambled around and then he felt it, pulled out his kit bag.
He sat with his back to the dead tree, drank some of his wine, ate some of the cold lamb, threw strips of fat to the two hounds and just enjoyed the feeling of being relatively safe, for a few moments.
What now, I wonder? Probably back into the marshes with this new warband, have another crack at Edana, but maybe with giants on our side this time.
He opened his kit bag, pulled out his coat of chainmail. He’d chosen not to wear it – stupid, maybe, as he’d been going into battle, but the thought of wearing a mail shirt while in a boat, travelling across rivers and lakes. No, the thought of drowning held a special terror for him.
Then he took out the box, turning it in his hands. He tried the lock again, but it would not shift. He shook it, something solid rattling around inside, took out his knife and wiggled it in the lock.
It would not open. He pressed harder and harder, in the end his knife slipping and cutting the palm of his hand. A flash of anger and he threw the knife, then stood with the box in both hands.
Can’t carry this stupid lump of wood around with me wherever I go.
He raised it over his head and smashed it down upon the tree root, as hard as old bones.
There was a loud crack and the lid flew open.
Pleased with himself, he sat back down again, the hounds coming over to be nosey, and he looked inside.
A cup sat in the box, not particularly fancy, dark. He lifted it up to the light and was surprised by how heavy it was.
It’s made out of some kind of metal. He twirled it in his hand, saw it was mostly black and smooth, here and there a paler vein running through the metal. Around its rim old runes curled in a scrawling script.
Well, I’ve carried a cup five hundred leagues across the Banished Lands. He laughed to himself and hefted it to throw it in the river, then paused. Looking at it, he suddenly felt thirsty.
Might as well have a drink from it first, let it earn its keep.
He poured some of his wine into the cup, swirled it around a little, then drank it down. He’d intended to only take a sip, but then he was smacking his lips and the cup was empty.
Maybe it’s a magic cup, he thought, one that makes everything taste nicer. P’raps I won’t throw it in the river.
He could feel the wine in his belly, a warm glow. As he thought about it the sensation grew, felt as if it was spreading through his veins, warm and wonderful
, like tendrils of gold.
He groaned in pleasure.
The sensation grew, spreading to the far corners of his body – toes, fingers, into his head, behind his eyes, swirling, intoxicating, better than the finest usque his da had ever let him sip. He heard laughing, realized it was him, and then he felt grass on his cheek. The cup rolled out of his fingers, into the grass.
Waves of pleasure pulsed through him, continued to grow, becoming uncomfortable in their intensity, too wonderful, an itch behind his eyeballs, feeling as if his heart was swelling in his chest. He groaned again, but not from pleasure this time. From fear, pleasure turning to pain. He curled his legs up to his chest, writhed and groaned and squirmed, the dogs sniffing and whining around him, ears back, licking his face.
Then he screamed, his whole body going rigid, sweating, every muscle in his body locked in an endless spasm. He tasted blood, realized he’d bitten his tongue. Darkness swooped down upon him, his vision blurring, the world around him fading, and then he knew no more.
CHAPTER NINETY
CORBAN
Corban marched along the dank tunnel, torches lodged high in sconces punctuating the darkness, the thud of his boots and whisper of Storm’s footsteps echoing ahead of him.
He felt as if he was going insane.
The enormity of what Meical had just told him kept hitting him, rolling over him like endless waves upon a beach.
His first thoughts had been for his friends, of telling them. Of telling Gar.
He has lived his whole life devoted to the prophecy, and to me because of it. His father died because of it. It will destroy him.
How can I tell everyone else? So many who have lost so much for this strategy, as Meical called it.
What will they think?
What will they do?
Will they all leave Drassil? Go back to their homes? Give up?
And then, hitting him like a hammer.
What will I do?
The truth was that right now he did not know. All he knew was that he needed to be away from Meical. His rage had scared him in the great hall, knowing that he was only heartbeats away from drawing his blade on the Ben-Elim. And, despite everything, he did not want to see Meical dead. Or even try to kill him. There had been something raw and honest in Meical’s confession, and as he’d listened to the Ben-Elim Corban had even felt an edge of sympathy for him – completely overwhelmed by all-out rage right now, but he knew it was there nevertheless.
He looked at Storm beside him, rested a hand upon her back and carried on walking.
Figures stood highlighted beneath the next pool of torchlight, two men, swords at their hips, one with a spear. Corban had lost track of how long he had been walking, just knew that his anger had started to recede – not fade or disappear, but at least to stop bubbling and spluttering in his mind like a thousand angry hornets kicked from their nest. And his stomach was growling, telling him to find some food.
The figures loomed closer – two guards set on the first trapdoor into Forn. He recognized them as he drew closer, the two oarsmen Atilius and his son Pax. Corban waved them a greeting as he drew near, and they both looked pleased when he addressed them by name.
Both of them bore marks from the battle before Drassil’s walls: Pax had linen bandaged around his head and Atilius had a raw scar running down the length of his forearm, the stitch-holes still visible from where they had recently been cut and pulled.
They both were talkative, smiling and asking about Dath.
He was handbound yesterday! Was it only yesterday? A lot seemed to have happened since then. Corban found it hard talking to these two men. He’d grown accustomed to people wanting to talk to him and always tried to take a few moments to speak with anyone who wanted to, but that had been before.
Before I learned of the great lie. He felt ashamed before them, warriors who had risked their lives before Drassil’s walls, all in the name of a prophecy and a Bright Star. They looked at him, thinking he was something that he knew he wasn’t.
I need some air.
‘Would you open the gate for me?’ he said. ‘I could do with some sunshine upon my face.’
‘Aye, lord,’ Pax said, running up the slope that led to the hidden door.
Lord! Corban thought as he and Atilius followed more slowly.
‘Any news on the next warband?’ Atilius asked him. He was an old soldier, a warrior of Tenebral, and clearly used to war.
‘No,’ Corban said.
‘We’ll show them, if they ever reach here,’ Pax said as he threw the bolt, his da moving to help him lift the oak crossbar.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Corban said as the door was pushed open and broken sunlight streamed in. ‘My thanks,’ he said as he stepped out into the fresh air, Storm loping off to sniff at a patch of dogwood.
‘My lord?’ Pax said nervously.
Not that again. ‘Aye,’ Corban sighed.
‘Where are your shieldmen?’ Pax looked about the forest. ‘Forn is not safe.’
‘They’re all sleeping off hangovers,’ Corban said with a wan smile. ‘But Storm is with me, and besides, I won’t go far,’ he said to the two men. ‘I’ll stamp on the door when I’m ready to come back down.’
‘All right then,’ Atilius said and they pulled the trapdoor closed. Pax stuck his head out just before it shut and threw something to Corban – a water skin and something rolled in linen. Corban smiled and then the door was closed, turf fixed to its top making it look like an ordinary patch of woodland.
He walked for a little while, drawn to the sound of running water, and soon he came upon a steep-sided river, fast flowing and narrow, its water foaming white and loud as it carved its way through a miniature ravine. Corban climbed a gentle rise that suddenly steepened until he emerged into a grassy glade on the brow of a hill, to the south the walls and towers of Drassil visible through the trees, behind and above the fortress the great tree spreading like a guardian of bark and branch. The sun was warm upon his face in this glade. He lay on his back and looked up, enjoying the sensation of not having a canopy of branches above him for a change. Cloud like faded gossamer veiled the sky, softening the sharp blue glare of spring.
From here the troubles of life seemed to fade, just a little, the storm of shock and despair that had been so overwhelming a short while ago receding to calmer waters. He propped himself up onto an elbow and unstoppered the skin Pax had thrown him. It was watered wine, not water, a little reminder of yesterday’s celebration, and it tasted very good to his dry throat. Wrapped in linen was a chunk of cheese and a thick oat biscuit, which he shared with Storm. She sat and stared at him, perfectly still except for the drool dripping from one of her fangs. He threw her another bit of cheese and she leaped to catch it, jaws snapping, then padded over and bashed him with her head, knocking him onto his back again. She stood over him and licked his face.
He pushed her off and rolled over, felt a pinch in his arm and looked down to see his arm-ring, dark iron and silver thread curling around his upper arm, a thing of beauty. He remembered the night it had been given to him, Meical slamming his sword into the ground.
We are what we choose to be, Meical had said to him that morning.
The question is, what do I choose to be?
He thought over Meical’s words to him, every sentence, poring over them. He noticed the air starting to cool about him, a strong wind coming up from the south.
‘Time to go back,’ he said eventually to Storm. ‘I can’t sit here forever. And I have an announcement to make.’
Meical’s confession still hurt, almost more than he could bear, like a wound that had pierced deep – unreachable, unhealable – but he knew that he could not just hide away in the woods, that he had to go back, if not for his sake then at least for those others who had believed the lie and followed him. And there was more to this God-War than titles and the strategies and games of immortals. There were people. Kin. Friends.
I may not be the great warrior pro
phesied to come and save the world that I once thought, but I am a man who has lost his mam and da to war. Lost my home, my King, my friends. I will not just walk away from that. Calidus and Nathair are still a great evil, and they still need to be stopped. I will not turn my back on that fight, avatar of a lost god or not.
As he stood, Storm looked northwards, down the incline and into the shade of the trees. She growled. At the same time a sound drifted up to him on the wind from the south. From Drassil. The wild blasts of horns. He strained to listen and thought he heard voices, screaming, the clash of iron.
Beside him Storm’s growl deepened, turning into a snapping snarling, the ridge of her hackles standing. Corban spun around, felt the ground tremble, saw branches shaking as something huge approached through the forest.
He told his feet to move but for a moment remained transfixed to the ground. Then a mass of fur and jaws and teeth emerged from the gloom and the treeline: a great bear with a blond-haired, paleskinned giant upon its back. He was wrapped in fur, a war-hammer slung across his back.
The giant from Gramm’s hold that slew Tukul. Ildaer, warlord of the Jotun.
‘I know you,’ the giant grated at him.
Other bears emerged from the forest, two, four, five of them, each with a rider upon their backs.
Corban snapped a command at Storm as he turned and ran.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
CORALEN
Coralen kicked Akar’s feet out from under him, saw him drop and attempt the roll that Sumur had executed so perfectly in front of them all during his duel with Corban, but Akar was a fraction slower and Coralen aimed a little higher, accounting for the attempted roll before it had fully begun.
The result was a dead Akar, or he would have been, if her sword had not been made of wood. He rose with a wince and a courteous nod, which she hardly even noticed. She was thinking about Corban.
I kissed him. Kissed him. And what does he do? Nothing. Even in her head the word was a snarl.
‘Again,’ she said to Akar. She didn’t notice that he looked disappointed to be asked.
