by Ian Whates
“All right, then.”
“Your sword, Maquin,” Aenor said.
Maquin drew his sword and rested the blade’s tip between them.
“Maquin, will you bind yourself to my son, Kastell ben Aenor, become his sword and shield, the defender of his flesh, his blood, his honour, unto death?”
“I will,” Maquin said, a swell of emotion making his voice raw. He gripped his sword’s blade, cut his palm, then held a fist above it, blood dripping onto the smooth iron pommel, running down the hilt and cross-guard.
“Kastell, will you bind yourself to Maquin ben Calon, accept his fealty, swear to provide and protect him to your utmost ability, unto your dying breath?”
“I will,” Kastell said, and without prompting he gripped the sword blade and squeezed. When a droplet of blood ran down the blade Kastell lifted his hand and clenched a fist, waiting as Maquin had until blood dripped onto the hilt, mixing with Maquin’s.
“It is done,” Aenor said.
They all stood there for long moments, Maquin’s world contracted to the pulsing throb of the cut on his palm. Kastell stared at him, big hazel eyes in a freckled face. Maquin grinned and dipped his head.
“My lord,” he said.
Kastell copied him. “My shieldman,” he replied. Aenor barked a laugh and Radulf slapped Maquin on the shoulder.
“Your da would have been proud to see this,” Radulf whispered to him.
Footsteps sounded behind and Maquin turned to see a warrior and child climbing the stairs towards them – Jael and Ulfilas, the warrior that had brought word of the giant attack at Tancred’s Hold. Aenor greeted them both, and Maquin nodded to Ulfilas. His arm was bandaged, a young man no more than twenty summers.
“I have told Jael that he is welcome to stay here with me and become a part of my Hold. I would make the same offer to you, Ulfilas,” said Aenor.
“I thank you, my Lord. I would like to stay here – your people have made me welcome. But I must go where Jael goes – I swore an oath to Tancred.” He dropped his head. “I could not keep my lord Tancred safe, but Jael...”
“I understand,” Aenor said, glancing at Maquin.
While the men were talking, Jael and Kastell eyed each other. Kastell hefted his wooden sword, then offered it to Jael.
“No. It is a toy for bairns,” said Jael.
“How old are you?”
“Seven summers.”
“Then you are a bairn, too.”
Jael looked away. Kastell scowled.
“Jael, have you thought more on where you would live?” Aenor asked.
Jael had turned to look out over the timber walls. He was just tall enough to see the land beyond. Green meadows rolled towards Forn Forest. He let out a whimper.
“There’s no need to be scared,” Kastell said, his tone helpful. “Forn’s only made out of trees, and trees aren’t scary. My mam told me that.”
Jael gave Kastell a dark look. “Your mam doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
Even though Jael was only seven Maquin bridled at the insult to Aenor’s wife. By the look on his face, so did Kastell.
“Don’t talk about my mam like that,” Kastell said.
“It’s the truth, and you don’t tell me what to do,” Jael snapped.
Kastell dropped his wooden sword and bunched his fists.
Oh dear, thought Maquin. Before he could act Kastell was moving. He shoved Jael hard into the wall, leaving a smear of blood as Jael’s nose crunched. Jael fell over, then launched himself at Kastell, hissing like a cat.
The two lads crashed about on the walkway, kicking and biting, rolling perilously close to the edge. Maquin was the first to move, the other men staring wide-eyed. Maquin grabbed two belts and hoisted the boys into the air, holding them as wide apart as he could. They fought to get at each other.
“Enough!” roared Aenor and the two boys stilled.
Radulf leaned close to Maquin. “In case you didn’t know, Kastell has a rare temper on him.”
Maquin sat in the feast hall, wiping rain from his eyes. A storm had rolled in and the short walk from his chambers had served to soak him and almost blown him into a wall. He unclasped his cloak and shook it. Beneath it he was wearing his best tunic, over it a gleaming leather jerkin. He had spent half the day polishing his sword and warrior torc, and he wore the silver arm ring that Aenor had given him after the brigands’ ambush. In other words he was wearing almost all of his warrior finery. All that he’d left behind in his chambers was his coat of mail and his helm. Aenor was announcing him Kastell’s shieldman tonight.
What have I got myself into? he thought, remembering Kastell’s brief fight with Jael. He smiled to himself. Kastell’s got spirit. He’s like his da, has a temper – should keep me on my toes, long as he’s not still picking fights after he’s sat his Long Night.
After his altercation with Kastell Jael had stated that he had no desire to live at Aenor’s Hold. He had gone as far as to demand that he be sent to live with King Romar. Aenor had not liked that, it had been plain to see, but he had held his temper. Jael and Ulfilas had left by highsun. Aenor had sent a dozen warriors with them as a guard. Probably for the best that Jael’s gone. Don’t think he and Kastell got off to the best of starts.
The hall was busy, the fire pit blazing as fat dripped and sizzled. Smoke rose thick in the air, pooling amidst the rafters around the roof’s smokehole. People ate and drank. It was not as full as usual for a celebration, though. Aenor had doubled the guards on the walls in light of the attack on Tancred’s Hold. The mood was more subdued than usual, talk of giants out of Forn still on most people’s tongues. Hounds snapped at one another under the benches as scraps came their way.
A figure sat on the bench beside Maquin.
Odilia. He knew it was her by the faint smell of cinnamon that always surrounded her.
“What’re you all dressed up for?” she asked, eying the warrior torc around his neck and squeezing his arm ring.
He tapped his nose and smiled at her.
“Don’t be so mysterious,” she said. “I’ll give you an extra spoonful of cream with your oatcakes and honey...”
“I’d tell you anything you want to know for that.” He grinned. Odilia made good oatcakes.
The hall quietened as Aenor and Irma entered, Kastell following at her side.
Radulf went to the quartered auroch turning on the spit and sliced Aenor the first cut of meat, then waited a moment for any willing to challenge his right, as was the custom. There was no challenge and he returned to his seat.
Aenor banged his cup with his knife and the room grew silent.
One of the hounds at Maquin’s feet growled, low and deep. Maquin put a hand on it and felt its hackles up.
“Easy boy,” he murmured, his attention mostly on Aenor.
The hound half rose, snarling at the closed doors of the feast-hall. Maquin realised other hounds about the room were doing the same. He frowned. Outside Maquin could hear the storm raging.
A horn call rang out, distant and swirling. It sent a shiver of ice through Maquin’s veins.
The call to arms.
Something crashed against the feast-hall’s doors, a booming impact that sent a cloud of dust roiling inwards.
“To arms,” Radulf yelled.
Maquin rose, drawing his sword.
“What is it?” Odilia gasped, gripping Maquin’s wrist.
The doors boomed, cracked, burst open.
“Nothing good,” Maquin said.
A gust of wind howled through the open doors, hurling rain into the room like a swarm of flies. Sounds filtered in, rising and falling: screams, the clash of iron. Something solid filled the doorway, blotting all else out. A huge figure silhouetted by flame. Tall, wide, a war hammer raised high.
Maquin froze for a dozen heartbeats, open-mouthed. He had seen a giant’s corpse only a day gone by, but that had still not prepared him for this. Dead, the giant had appeared as a sail with no wind in it
, crumpled, empty. This creature that stood in the doorway radiated strength and menace. It stood a man and a half tall, wrapped in leather and fur, thick cords of muscle writhing. A long drooping moustache was bound with leather cord, its face all sharp angles and jutting brows.
“Sinn gabh cuidich ciod bha caillte,” it bellowed, spittle flying.
“The Hunen,” yelled Maquin, moving forward. Odilia cried out behind him, clutched at his arm. He paused, looking between her and the open doorway. The giant surged into the feast-hall, war hammer swinging, smashing into the chest of a warrior. Maquin heard the crunch of bones over all other noise, the warrior hurled through the air. More giants crowded behind the first. In a heartbeat everything turned to chaos, people standing, running, benches overturning.
“To me,” he heard Radulf shouting.
“Stay behind me,” Maquin said to Odilia. Gripping her hand he threaded his way through the hall towards Radulf. A table hurtled past him, landing in the fire pit, sending sparks swirling. Flames caught quickly, a bank of heat making Maquin swerve. Odilia staggered but Maquin steadied her and dragged her on. Everywhere screams filled the hall, punctuated by the guttural yells of the Hunen. The wet sound of iron cleaving flesh. Panic spread faster than smoke. Maquin kept on moving, his eyes on Radulf. Behind the first-sword he glimpsed Aenor standing with blade drawn, one hand on Irma. Kastell held on to her leg.
“What do we do?” Maquin yelled as he reached Radulf. The warrior stood a dozen paces before Aenor, eyes scanning the hall. A score of warriors were with Radulf now, more emerging from the chaos of the hall.
“We must get Aenor out of here,” Radulf grunted. “We’ll not make the same mistake Tancred did, getting cornered in here like rats in a trap. We need space. See to Kastell, we’re heading out the back door.”
“What about...” Maquin glanced about the hall. Bodies were scattered everywhere, a handful of giants wading through the hall swinging war hammers and axes at anything that moved. It’s like terriers in a barrel of rats. He saw faces he’d lived with, laughed with. Shadow and flame contorted everything, banks of smoke rolling across his vision.
“Remember your oath,” Radulf snapped. “Aenor, Irma and Kastell are our charge. Go.” He pushed Maquin towards their lord, warriors sweeping about them like a closing fist.
“Stay close to Irma,” Maquin said to Odilia. Aenor was staring beyond him at the carnage in the hall. “This way, my lord,” Maquin said, pulling at Aenor’s cloak.
They all moved together, Maquin hardly pausing as he kicked open the door to the kitchens, a wave of heat from the ovens hitting him. He turned to check Aenor and the others were following, saw a huge figure appear out of a billowing cloud of smoke. Maquin had a moment to yell a warning, then the Hunen’s war hammer was sweeping down.
It crashed into Irma, fragments of flesh and bone exploding where her head had been. People screamed – Aenor, Kastell – Odilia flew through the air, caught by the hammer as it followed the arc of its swing. She crunched into a wall and slid down, a trail of blood smearing the stone.
Maquin stared at Irma’s ruined form.
He moved, his feet carrying him before he had time to think. The force of its blow had swung the giant away and Maquin darted close – don’t give it room to swing that hammer – and cut two-handed at the giant’s waist. Blood sprayed as his blade sliced through fur and leather, bit into flesh. The giant grunted. Maquin yanked his sword free as he spun behind the giant, back-swung at a leg to leave a red gash, then the giant was turning, much faster than Maquin thought possible for something of its bulk. It saw him, snarled and lashed out, fist connecting with Maquin’s shoulder, sending him sprawling. Pain bloomed. He rolled, glimpsed the giant following him, saw it lurch and drop to one knee. Ignoring the pain he pushed himself upright, found his sword, charged at the giant, swung overhead at its neck.
The giant reached out, grabbed his arm in one big hand, stopping him dead. He writhed in its grip but could not pull free.
On its knee the giant was at eye level with Maquin. They stared at each other for a moment, the giant’s eyes small and black beneath its jutting brow. Then Maquin’s other hand found his knife and he drew, punched it into the giant’s armpit, twisting as he felt the blade grate on bone. The giant bellowed, hurled Maquin to the ground. He cracked his head, white lights exploding in his vision. The giant rose unsteadily and raised its war hammer.
A spearpoint burst from its throat, blood jetting in a fountain, and it collapsed to its knees. The spear blade was yanked back, Radulf appearing from behind the giant. Then Aenor was there, other warriors, all stabbing, hacking. The giant toppled to the side, crashed to the ground.
Radulf pulled Maquin to his feet.
“With me,” Aenor yelled, his face twisted with rage. He led a dozen men into the hall. Maquin glimpsed them attacking another giant. It swung a two-bladed axe, roaring as spears pierced it.
“Aenor is grief-mad,” Radulf said, “there’s no stopping him. Take Kastell and get out.”
“You’ll need my sword arm.”
Radulf gripped his shoulder and shook him. “Remember your oath, lad. Get him out, keep him safe.” His face softened, just for a moment. “I’ll see you again, this side or the other.” Then he was gone, running after Aenor.
Maquin went to Odilia. Her neck was twisted at an impossible angle, eyes staring sightlessly. Kastell was sitting beside his mam’s corpse. He was holding her hand. Maquin crouched beside him and gently pried their hands apart, then swept Kastell up into his arms and he was running. Through the kitchens, along a corridor and out into the night.
Rain splattered his face, wind tugging at his warrior braid. It was dark, his vision blurred. No giants loomed nearby, the sound of combat faint.
“I feel sick,” Kastell said.
Maquin put him down and Kastell bent over and vomited.
Maquin patted his back, Kastell retching long after his stomach was empty. Eventually he looked up at Maquin, bile and spittle on his chin.
“Where’s my da?” Kastell asked him.
“That way,” Maquin gestured towards the swirling sounds of combat. “Don’t worry lad, Radulf is with him. He’ll be back with you soon enough.”
Maquin hesitated. Fight or flight? He knew his duty was to protect Kastell, but the thought of walking away from his lord and his shield-brothers felt so wrong it bordered on cowardice. I could hide him, then go fight. While he was still deliberating Kastell made the decision for him, sprinting past him into the darkness. Maquin tried to grab him but the lad swerved and then he was gone, heading back towards the battle.
Damn it, Maquin cursed and chased after him.
They ran along the side of the feast-hall, with every step the sounds of battle growing louder. Maquin caught up with Kastell just as he stumbled into the courtyard in front of the feast-hall. They both skidded to a halt and stood staring.
It was a scene from the Otherworld.
Buildings around the courtyard were in flames, huge tongues of fire curling into the sky, rain hissing and spitting as it turned to steam. The courtyard seethed with bodies, giants swinging their war hammers and axes, warriors rallying, small knots trying to bring down the Hunen, like hounds around a boar. Bodies lay everywhere, the stench of blood and faeces hitting Maquin, clawing with insistent fingers into his throat.
There must be fifty giants out here.
In a glance he knew the Hold was lost.
In the centre of the courtyard a giant roared and toppled to the ground. Maquin knew he should be doing something – running, fighting – but he caught a glimpse of Aenor and Radulf highlighted by flames, stabbing at the fallen giant. He stood transfixed. Only a few warriors were with Radulf and Aenor now. Two giants fell upon them, howling as they came. One warrior’s head spun through the air. Another was crushed by a war hammer. Radulf deflected a blow somehow, caused the giant’s axe to crash into the ground, an explosion of earth. Radulf’s sword swung and severed the giant’s arm at
the elbow. Aenor retreated before another giant, who held a war hammer two handed, like a staff. The butt end snaked out, slammed into Aenor’s chest. He staggered and dropped, the war hammer rising and falling, a sickening crunch audible to Maquin.
Radulf yelled something incoherent, threw himself at the giant standing over Aenor.
“Da,” Kastell screamed and set off running, weaving through the yard. Maquin followed, stooping to snatch up a spear.
Kastell ran between a giant’s legs, swerved around an overturned wain and then he was standing before his da’s broken body, Maquin a heartbeat behind him. Radulf was swinging his sword two-handed at the giant that had slain Aenor, for a moment his ferocity driving the huge warrior back. Then the giant was setting his feet, catching Radulf’s sword on his hammer-haft, jabbing the butt out as it had against Aenor.
Radulf’s only got moments before he’s down. Maquin hurled his spear, caught the giant in the shoulder, staggering it. Radulf darted in, left a diagonal cut along its thigh as Maquin circled it. The giant pulled the spear from its shoulder, hurled it at Maquin. He ducked and surged in, cut at the giant’s forearm. Radulf struck, the giant bellowing in frustration as the two men stepped in and out, striking and moving out of range, like hounds worrying at a bull.
The giant stumbled over a body and Maquin chopped at its knee, sending it crashing to the ground, then the two men were hacking at it, blood spraying, the giant trying to rise. Maquin chopped fingers from a hand, then he had one foot on its chest and drove his sword into its throat. It twitched and was still. Maquin leaned on his sword, breathing heavily.
Radulf was stood over Aenor’s corpse.
Maquin grabbed Kastell by the wrist. “There’ll be no more running from me, lad.” He turned to Radulf, saw a bleak, grim look in his eyes. “Nothing left for us here.”
“Get the bairn out of here,” Radulf said, hefting his sword. “I’ll watch your back.”
Maquin had seen the deathwish before, and it was writ upon Radulf’s face now.
“You’ll come with us,” Maquin, said. “I need you. He needs you.”
