by Ian Whates
“Who do you know that’s seen them?” Maquin tried to keep the scepticism from his voice.
“There’s a brotherhood of warriors that call themselves the Gadrai, giant-killers they are. Live in a crumbling tower in Forn somewhere close to the river.” Radulf was as steady as they come, a fine balance for his Lord Aenor’s hot-headedness. He was not one to be taken in by fanciful tales.
“I’ve heard of them,” Maquin said begrudgingly.
“I’ve drunk with some of them, and they’ll tell you the Hunen are real enough. But I don’t think it was the Hunen that attacked Tancred’s Hold. I think our survivor has had one too many blows to the head. It would take a warband of the Hunen to overrun Tancred’s Hold, and I’ve never heard of the giants coming out in those kind of numbers. More likely it was a band of lawless men. Attacking at night the enemy is always bigger, more fearsome.” He shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
Columns of black smoke became visible, billowing into the sky a few leagues ahead, birds circling lazily.
Never a good sign.
They rode in silence now, the clatter of hooves, the jingle of harness and chainmail the only sounds marking their passing. Tancred’s Hold appeared before them, a palisaded wall sitting upon the crest of a low hill. Its gates were open, one hanging from its hinges. Maquin searched the walls for movement, but he saw only the flutter of wings, heard only the raucous cawing of crows. Aenor led their column of warriors up the hill, the white horsehair plume of his helmet flowing out behind him. He lifted his spear from its cup, dipped it a little, ready. Maquin and three-score warriors did the same.
Aenor passed through the gates, Maquin and Radulf close behind. The smell hit Maquin first: blood, decay, charred flesh. They rode into a wide courtyard, a timber feast-hall at its far end, doors blackened from fire, still smoking. Bodies were everywhere, some still in one piece, many eviscerated, dismembered, limbs scattered. Swarms of flies buzzed in great clouds. A horse slipped in a pile of intestines, the rider dragging on his reins to stay seated.
Aenor dismounted and strode ahead. Maquin and Radulf were close behind, moving either side of their lord. They shared a look.
Stay close, don’t let him get ahead, the look said. Aenor was known for his temper. It had led him into dangerous situations before now.
Within heartbeats a dozen more warriors had formed up around them, the rest fanning out through the courtyard. Aenor climbed the steps to the feast hall. He stopped and waved his spear at a daring crow. It sat upon a mound before the feast-hall’s open doors and squawked angrily as it took to the air, red beak dripping droplets of gore.
It took a moment for Maquin to realize what the bird had been feasting upon. A huge warrior lay across the entrance, considerably taller than a grown man, though shorter than two, Maquin guessed. The figure was thick-muscled, dark haired, clothed in leather and mail. The crow had taken its eyes. A great wound stretched across its throat, blood pooling black about the body. Maquin spied a swirling tattoo spiraling up one bare arm, a vine thick with thorns. The warrior still clutched a war hammer in its death grip.
“The Hunen,” Aenor muttered.
“The rider spoke true, then,” Radulf said.
Maquin felt a spike of fear, cold and sharp in his belly. He took a deep, slow breath, controlling it.
Other bodies lay beyond the giant: men, heaped and twisted in death. Aenor knelt beside one, fair-haired beneath the matted blood.
“Tancred,” he said, wiping crusted blood from the man’s face.
Where is Rosamund, my lord’s sister? thought Maquin.
Aenor rose and stepped through the doors.
Maquin followed, shield gripped tight, spear ready. He blinked in the twilight of the hall. Shafts of light dissected the room, cutting down from holes in the roof where the thatch had burnt away. Thick flakes of ash drifted on the air like black, corrupted leaves. Tables and benches were strewn about the hall, smashed, heaped together. They passed another Hunen, this one fallen in the fire pit, a spear in his belly. His face was twisted in a snarl, pain or rage Maquin could not tell. Charred fingers still gripped the pit’s edge.
At the far end of the hall there were three more dead giants, before them a mound of warriors, piled in a half-circle like bags of grain against a flood.
Their last stand.
Beyond them, draped upon the few steps that led to the high table, lay another body. A woman, judging by her clothing. Aenor let out a great sob and knelt beside her.
Rosamund.
A huge wound spanned her chest, flesh and bone cleaved in one great stroke. Aenor cradled her body.
Radulf signalled to warriors, motioning towards a door at the far end of the hall.
The Hunen are gone from here, thought Maquin.
There was a scraping sound, an overturned table shifting, and every warrior in the room was instantly poised, spears levelled.
A face poked out from the ruin, blackened with ash, eyes wide with fear, cheeks tear stained.
Maquin raised his spear, then paused. It is a bairn. Only a bairn.
The child they had discovered was Rosamund’s and Tancred’s son, Jael. He was seven summers old and sat before Maquin now, both hands gripping the high saddle pommel. He had whimpered when they set off, the first sounds he’d made since they pulled him from the rubble of broken furniture in the feast-hall.
“Nothing to fear, lad,” Maquin had whispered to him, feeling immediately like a fool. He has plenty to fear, and will probably be having nightmares for the rest of his life.
After discovering Jael they had searched the rest of the Hold. In total nine Hunen corpses were found. There were no more survivors and so they set to caring for the dead, Aenor sending scouts to search for signs of the giants. As the last stones were laid upon the cairns of the dead the scouts returned, telling of tracks coming from and then returning to Forn Forest.
Aenor had gone to where the giant dead had been laid out, upon a bed of rushes. He raised his sword and with a great cry cut the head from one of them. It took three swings. He tied it to his saddle and then set a torch to the rushes. In moments a fire roared, great tongues of flame caressing the giant corpses.
They rode from the Hold in grim silence.
The sun was dipping into the horizon, their shadows stretching along the road far ahead, when home came into view. Maquin breathed a sigh of relief, the gnawing dread that Aenor’s Hold had been attacked while they were away evaporating with the sight of the Hold’s timber walls. Far beyond them Forn spread, a brooding shadow swallowing the horizon.
Horn blasts announced their return, a crowd gathering to greet them as they cantered through the gates into a wide courtyard. Cheers stuttered and died when Aenor reined in his horse and raised from his saddle the giant’s head, holding it high for all to see.
“Our ancient foe has returned,” he cried, “striking from out of Forn to slay my kin.” He called to old Erengar, one of the Hold’s smiths, asking for a hammer and long nails. Erengar hurried away and returned quickly. Aenor rode to the gates, stood in his saddle and hammered the long nail through the giant’s skull into the timber frame. When he was done he dropped the hammer and stared in silence, breathing hard.
“Let none forget,” he shouted, then kicked his mount on to the stables.
Maquin and the warband followed, and for a while all was chaos as horses were tended and stabled. Maquin lifted Jael and stood him in a corner while he stripped saddle and blanket from his horse, going through the ritual of checking hooves and rubbing down.
Radulf came to him as he finished and was standing looking at Jael, wondering what to do with the lad.
“Take the bairn for some food, then bring him to Aenor’s chambers,” Radulf said.
“Food? Me?”
“Aye. Aenor’s orders. Until later, then.” Radulf left.
“Right lad, let’s find you something to eat,” Maquin said as he held out a hand. Jael took it and they set off for the feas
t-hall. Maquin took Jael through the hall, a great boar turning on a spit above the fire pit, then through a door and into the kitchens. The smell of baking bread and a dozen other aromas set his mouth watering. His eyes searched out Odilia. She was two years widowed from a shieldman of Aenor’s, and Maquin had a mind to court her. Two years grieving is long enough. Long enough to not give her a bad name. Aenor’s Hold was large by any standards – over a hundred warriors, three times that in women and bairns, as well as all the traders needed to keep a Hold running – smiths and farriers, tanners, weavers, horsemen, crofters, but really it was like a huge extended family, a small village where everyone new everyone. There was a closeness amongst those that lived here, that bound them together, almost as if they were kin.
Odilia smiled at Maquin when she saw him, and he thought her eyes sparkled a little. In return for a whispered telling of what had happened at Tancred’s Hold he was given two bowls of venison stew and bread still warm from the oven. Jael ate every drop and crumb.
“Do you want some more?” Maquin asked.
Jael shook his head.
Maquin stared at Jael. What do you say to a boy who’s just lost everything?
“Come on,” he said, and with a grateful nod to Odilia led Jael from the kitchens and made his way to Aenor’s rooms. It was dark now, stars bright in a cloudless sky. He nodded to his swordbrothers standing guard outside Aenor’s chambers and was ushered in, Jael following silently behind.
Maquin saw Irma first, Aenor’s wife. She was tall, elegant, her face fine featured, hard if not for the smile she was directing at her husband. Aenor sat in a fur-covered chair, bouncing a child upon his knee. Kastell, his son. The lad was laughing hard, fighting for breath, his face almost as red as his hair. Aenor was smiling, creases around his eyes softening the usual stern lines of his face. He saw Jael first and stopped bouncing Kastell, the boy protesting. Aenor placed Kastell on the ground.
“Kastell, this is Jael, your cousin.”
“Hello,” Kastell said, suddenly serious, his face still red from the laughing.
Irma crouched down and held out her hands to Jael.
The boy looked at the floor and shuffled his feet.
“Come here, Jael,” Aenor said and Jael walked forward.
“You are safe now,” Aenor said. He took Jael’s hand and looked into the boy’s eyes. “It is early yet, but I want you to know, you are welcome here. You are kin, my sister’s son, and if you wish it you will have a home here, always.”
Jael chewed his lip. “Can you see the forest from here?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
“Forn. Aye, you can,” Aenor said.
“I don’t want to stay here,” Jael said, louder.
“If you prefer I can send you to my brother, King Romar.” A string of emotions twisted Aenor’s face for a moment: sadness, shame, finally anger. “I think you would be better off staying with me. No harm will come to you while you’re here. You’re safe,” Aenor said.
“That’s what my da said.”
Maquin woke to a knocking on his door. He pulled his boots on and opened it wide, blinking blearily in the morning sunlight. Aenor stood there, the bulk of Radulf looming over his shoulder. Another figure pushed into view, squeezing a head around Aenor’s legs. Kastell, Aenor’s son.
“Walk with me,” his lord said, then turned and strode away.
Maquin chased after them, quickly pulling on a tunic and grabbing his scabbarded sword and belt, which he slung over a shoulder. He cursed as he stabbed himself with the pin of his cloak brooch. Aenor led him to the Hold’s wall, then climbed stairs, finally stopping on the walkway above the eastern gate. The air was cold, damp, a thin mist still in the air. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon.
There’s a storm coming.
Radulf walked on a few steps, taking Kastell with him. He lifted the boy to his chest and pointed into the distance.
“I have something to ask you,” Aenor said to Maquin, looking out at the vastness of Forn Forest, a dark stain that consumed the horizon.
“Anything, my lord.”
“No. Wait until you have heard what I am asking.”
Maquin frowned. Aenor was larger than life, quick to anger, and once upon a time quick to laugh, although that had changed since he had argued with his brother, the King. Since then he had become silent and brooding, had left the court at Mikil for a life in the wilderness, his family and retainers following him into his self-imposed exile. But one thing that Maquin had never seen him appear was scared. Until today.
“I am troubled, Maquin. I grieve for my sister Rosamund, and more. The Hunen striking out of Forn in such numbers as to destroy a Hold, over seventy shieldmen slain...” He shook his head. “Something is wrong. Something is happening.”
“It won’t happen here,” Maquin growled, but he felt a spike of doubt. Seeing the carnage left behind by the Hunen had troubled him, and fear was in the air; he had heard the talk spreading through the Hold like a rolling mist.
“Perhaps,” Aenor shrugged. He gripped the timber wall and squeezed, his knuckles white. “I have a mind to ride out and see if I can find these giants.” His expression darkened into something Maquin had seen before. It usually ended with blades drawn and blood spilt. He felt a thrill at the thought of riding out after the Hunen, part excitement, part fear.
“Whatever I decide, we must be prepared,” Aenor continued. “You have been part of my Hold a long time. Fourteen years have passed us by since your sixteenth nameday, since you sat your Long Night and became a man. You have served me well, risen through my ranks, become a man that I trust.”
Maquin blinked, did not know what to say. “Thank you, my lord,” he mumbled.
“You swore an oath to me, to be my sword and shield.”
“I did.” Maquin looked at the scar on his palm, where he had spilt his blood to seal his oath to Aenor.
“I would ask you to make that oath to another.”
“What, you mean... leave you...?”
“No. I am speaking of Kastell. I want you to become my son’s shieldman. I want you to swear your oath to him. To protect him above all others – even before me. Unto death.”
“Kastell.” Maquin looked past Aenor at the lad, still held in Radulf’s arms, staring out enraptured at Forn as Radulf whispered tales of sharp-toothed wolven or mighty draigs.
“Aye, Kastell,” Aenor said. “This would be no small undertaking, no light words. You would be binding yourself to him for life, and I hope that he has a long one to live.”
Maquin blew out a long breath. He was happy with his life, content living at Aenor’s Hold, with the position he held. He was born to be a warrior, it was all he knew. Other than the growing presence of Odilia in his mind he had no real thoughts of change for the future, just more of the same. Would being Kastell’s shieldman change that? In real terms, probably not. Or at least, not until Kastell came of age. The boy was six summers old, would grow to inherit all that Aenor was building now. But Maquin new that Aenor was asking, and offering, a great deal. To become shieldman to the lord’s son, that was a great honour indeed. It spoke of trust, not only in martial skill, but in practical judgement and wisdom. Am I wise? Not particularly. Though I don’t count myself amongst the stupid, either.
“What is wrong?” Aenor asked him.
“I do not feel worthy, my lord. It is a great honour that you offer me.”
“Aye, it is. And a great responsibility. My son is precious to me, and I cannot be at his side always. I would rest easier knowing that someone I trust is with him. You are my obvious choice, Maquin. Skilled, brave, loyal.” He paused and held Maquin’s gaze. “If you would rather think on it.”
“No, my lord, I know my answer. I would be proud to be Kastell’s shieldman.”
“You are sure. I would not think less of you – and there would be no consequences. Nothing would change between us.”
“I am sure, my lord. There is no doubt in my heart.” All tha
t Maquin felt was an overwhelming sense of pride. I wish my da were here to see this.
“Let us do it now, then. Kastell, come here.”
“Now?”
“Aye. We will have a feast tonight to celebrate, and I will drink to you.” He clapped his hand on Maquin’s shoulder and grinned, a rare sight these days. “But I want it done now. It is on my mind, and I will rest easier once the deed is done.”
Radulf set the lad down and he ran to Aenor. Maquin saw Kastell had a wooden sword in his hand. He stabbed Aenor in the leg with it.
“You know Maquin, Kastell.” The boy nodded, suddenly serious. “He is one of my bravest warriors –”
“As brave as you and Radulf?” Kastell asked him.
“Aye, Kastell, as brave as both of us, and more than that. He is loyal, which is of greater value than gold. Maquin is going to watch over you from now on. He is to be your shieldman. That is a sacred role, between lord and warrior –”
“I am his lord, then?”
“Yes.” Aenor smiled and ruffled his son’s red hair. Maquin smiled too at the mischievous sparkle in the boy’s eyes.
“That does not mean you can order him about,” Aenor added. “Maybe one day, after your Long Night. But not yet.”
Maquin was glad that Aenor had made that clear.
Kastell looked disappointed, but still nodded.
“You would accept Maquin as your shieldman, then?”
Kastell looked Maquin up and down. “If you choose him for me. I trust you, da.”
“Good. There is also something that you must do. You have seen men swear their oaths to me.”
“Do I have to cut my hand?”
“Yes, you do.”
“Why?”
“Because you are both making a promise to each other. To do all that you can, unto death, to protect one another. Making the cut says that you are prepared to spill blood for that oath; your own blood, or someone else’s.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Aye.”
Kastell dropped his wooden sword and looked at his open palm, as if imagining it bleeding. Then he looked up at his da.
