by John Gwynne
Corban shrugged.
‘Well, whatever he has to say to you, let him say it.’
With a grunt Corban followed Gar back to the camp, where everyone was making ready to leave. Amidst it all Edana sat huddled against a tree. Brina returned and set to helping Gwenith prepare some food – cold venison that still tasted good.
Corban’s mam tried to catch his eye but he looked away, immediately experiencing a rush of guilt. She’s lost her husband. My da . . .
But somehow his feet would not take him over to her.
In no time they were all clambering back onto the boat. Mordwyr and Dath set the sail to catch the wind, guiding them out of the cove they had sheltered in, and soon they were scudding along the coast. The sky was a clear, sharp blue, wave tips glistening in the sun. Corban burrowed into the pile of nets towards the rear of the boat, Storm curling beside him, her nose twitching at the scent of fish.
Days passed like this, the boat hugging the coast, moving ever further from Dun Carreg, from home. Nights were spent huddled around small fires, when they dared, eating whatever Marrock and Camlin could provide. Storm was usually more successful in the hunting. Corban maintained his silence with his mam and Gar, though his mam tried more than once to pull him away from the small company. He always refused, though he was starting to hate himself for it. But no matter how he thought of things, as soon as the suggestion of leaving their small band of friends rose in his mind, he felt an instant surge of anger. Everything else had been taken from him. He would cling to this last remnant of home like a drowning man in a stormy sea.
Every morning Gar would prod him awake and work through the sword dance with him, but the stablemaster did not try to drag him into conversation. His look was enough. It said, We will talk, whether sooner or later, as patient as a hovering hawk.
On the fifth day after Dun Carreg’s fall Corban was sitting in his customary position on the fisher-boat, Storm beside him. Dath was a half-visible figure climbing on the mast up above. Farrell walked unsteadily towards him, swaying as the boat rose and fell.
‘Thank your wolven for me,’ Farrell said as he settled into the nets beside Corban.
‘For what?’
‘Food to break our fast with this morning, and dinner last night. I don’t like being hungry. Makes me angry.’
‘Well we wouldn’t want that. Not while you’ve got that hammer strapped to your back, anyway.’
Farrell chuckled, patting Thannon’s hammer-head which poked over his shoulder.
Corban thought of his da, lying in the keep at Dun Carreg, Buddai curled beside him. He felt a stab of guilt, that he could be making jests so soon after his da’s death. He shook his head. ‘How’d you get so big, anyway?’ he asked, glancing at Anwarth, Farrell’s da. He was a short man, the absolute opposite of Farrell, although they shared something in their features, the angle of their jaws, eyes set beneath heavy brows.
‘You haven’t seen my mam, then,’ Farrell said. ‘She always said I got my big bones from her. Da must like big women . . .’
Corban smiled, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders begin to lift. It was good, somehow, just to sit and talk with a friend.
‘Hope she’s all right,’ Farrell muttered, his face creasing. ‘Mind you, she can look after herself. Me and da can vouch for that.’ He tried to smile, but wasn’t completely successful. ‘Saw you training, this morning.’
Corban nodded.
‘It was quite something. Never seen anything like it.’
‘Gar’s been training me a while now. About two years.’
‘Explains why you’re so good with a sword, then. I couldn’t believe it when you beat Rafe.’
Corban shrugged. ‘I don’t know where Gar learned all that stuff, though. Always thought it was from Helveth . . .’ He trailed off. As it turned out Gar wasn’t from Helveth, after all. Turned out most of what he thought about his past was wrong, lies piled on top of one another.
Time passed, the boat rising and falling rhythmically. Corban felt exhausted, worn out by his churning emotions as much as the events of the last few days. Gwenith and Gar sat together. His mam’s eyes were red rimmed and sunken, her face pale and drawn. Storm nuzzled his palm and he absently stroked her head. The things his mam had said about him swirled in his mind like flotsam in a whirlpool, different parts bobbing to the surface. Like what she had said about him being hunted – by Asroth – how could that be? He had never given much thought to Asroth or Elyon before, was not even sure if he believed them to be real, and so far had not particularly cared. Elyon, the maker of all, and Asroth, his great enemy, leading his host of the Fallen. Corban knew the tales well enough, of Asroth’s corruption of the first giants and men, the War of Treasures that followed, and then the Scourging. Until now he’d thought they were little more than faery stories told to keep children in their cots at night. He looked about, at his companions littered around the boat. Beyond the railings he caught a glimpse of the coastline, a dark smudge of dense trees and cliffs. Lifting his hand in front of his face, he stared at his fingers, saw black dirt making patterns in the creases of his skin, the swirling design of his fingerprints. Someone or something must have made all of this, I suppose, he thought. But Asroth, hunting me . . . ?
He shook his head.
Brina sat down beside him. Farrell glanced at the healer, then looked away. No matter how the recent events had affected everyone, Brina still had a reputation. Corban weathered her silent stare as long as he could.
‘Where’s Craf?’ he asked, more to break the silence than anything else.
‘There,’ she said with a nod.
Craf was sitting on the prow of the ship, staring straight ahead like some tattered figurehead.
‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Corban muttered.
‘There’s a surprise,’ Brina snorted. ‘All right then, but this time I will be asking a few questions of you, too. Perhaps we can do a trade.’
‘What could I possibly know that would interest you?’
‘A trade – yes or no?’
‘Perhaps.’ Corban eyed her suspiciously. ‘Let’s hear each other’s questions first, then decide.’
Brina scowled. ‘Well?’ she prompted.
‘The night we fled Dun Carreg, on the way to the tunnels. You and Heb . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘That mist. Did you . . . ?’
‘Ah, a good question.’ She almost smiled at him. ‘My question, then: Gar.’
Corban sighed. He knew it would have to be about the stablemaster. ‘Go on.’
‘He came to Dun Carreg when you and Cywen were bairns?’
Hearing Cywen’s name made something twist in his stomach. He nodded.
‘I’d like to know where he came by that curved sword of his, and where he learned how to use it. I’d like to know how he was on speaking terms with the King of Tenebral’s first-sword. And most of all, I’d like to know why he’s so interested in you.’ She jabbed his chest with a finger.
‘That’s a lot of questions. I only asked you one,’ Corban pointed out.
‘Mine are linked,’ Brina retorted.
Corban held a hand up. ‘Believe me, they are all questions that I’d like to hear the answers to, myself.’
‘You don’t know, then?’
‘No, though I wish I did.’
‘Well, go and ask him,’ she said. ‘Then you can come back and tell me.’
‘No,’ he snapped, more harshly than he’d intended. ‘It’s complicated . . .’
She stared at him, then rose with a grunt. ‘When you’ve uncomplicated it, come and talk to me. I’ll tell you about the mist.’ She walked away.
Highsun had come and gone. Corban was standing by the rail, staring at nothing. He could just make out the coast: a blur of tree and rock, here and there lines of smoke climbing into the sky, marking villages and homesteads. Mordwyr and Dath had taken the boat as far out to sea as possible to avoid being seen from land, and so far Corban had only spied one ot
her vessel on the water, not much more than a black dot in the distance.
There was a cry from the front. Marrock was pointing at something ahead. Halion made his way forward, others following. He spoke briefly with Marrock and then called for Mordwyr. The fisherman set Dath on the steering oar and made his way to the prow.
He doesn’t look too good, thought Corban as Mordwyr passed him. The man was pale, a sheen of sweat on his face. Corban followed him, leaning over the rail to look ahead when he could go no further. In the distance, directly in front of them, was a cluster of black dots. Boats. They trailed off to a thin line that led almost back to the coast.
‘What is that?’ he heard Halion ask Mordwyr.
Mordwyr stared silently, squinting into the distance. ‘Boats,’ he muttered. ‘Lots of them.’
‘I can see that,’ Halion snapped. ‘I mean, what are they doing? Why are they there?’
Even as the two men spoke, Corban could make out the sight more easily as they sped forwards. The boats were of different shapes and sizes, but most appeared to be fisher-boats similar to the one they were on. Corban counted at least thirty. They were heading out into open sea, their line stretching back to the coast, where a fair-sized village lay nestled along the shore.
‘I don’t know,’ Mordwyr murmured, ‘but they look to be heading to Ardan. More of Owain’s handiwork?’
‘This is Cambren,’ Marrock said. ‘Rhin rules here.’
‘Whatever is going on, we need to find the coast. Now. And pray to Elyon that we have not already been spotted,’ Mordwyr said, bursting into motion. Nimbly he scrambled back down the boat, yelling instructions to Dath.
Mordwyr took over the steering oar and Dath leaped to the sail, baffling Corban with the speed that he pulled on ropes, the sail abruptly sagging, emptying of wind. Slowly, the fisher-boat turned, losing the rhythm it had maintained. The sea suddenly felt more powerful beneath them, more dangerous. Corban grabbed onto the rail as they all lurched upwards, caught in the swell of a wave. Spray burst over the side.
Then Dath was pulling at the ropes again, darting around the base of the mast, and the sail began to fill. Within moments it was billowing, straining, and soon the boat was cutting towards the coast, a wake of white foam spreading behind them.
Mordwyr guided them onto a shingle beach flanked by a grassy ridge, hidden from sight from the village ahead by a curve in the land. Quickly they disembarked. Corban’s heart pounded as they scrambled up the beach, the crunch of shingle sounding deafening under their feet. They passed under a treeline, entering a wood of ash and sycamore. ‘We’ll have to stay here for now,’ Halion said. ‘Set up camp in these woods and wait until our path is clear. No fires,’ he added. He set a guard on the ridge to watch over the boat and check that no vessels came searching for them. ‘Camlin, take some hands with you and make sure we’re not too close to any unfriendly eyes or ears,’ Halion said with a wave at the thick woodland.
‘Aye, chief,’ the woodsman said. ‘Dath, bring your bow. And Corban, might need your wolven’s nose.’
They set off into the woods. Corban saw Dath glance at his da. The fisherman was sitting against a tree, his head in his hands. His shoulders were trembling. Dath hovered, then Vonn sat down beside Mordwyr. Dath shook his head and made after Camlin.
As they made their way into denser woodland Corban heard footsteps following and turned to see Gar behind him. ‘What’re you doing?’ he said.
‘Watching your back.’
‘I don’t want you to. I’m not a bairn.’’
‘Ban, don’t waste your breath. I’m coming, whether you’re happy about it or not. You’d have to be bind me hand and foot to stop me.’
Camlin looked at Gar and shrugged. ‘I’m not complaining,’ the woodsman said. ‘I saw you the other night; you an’ that sword would be handy if we walk into any bother.’
Corban said nothing more and followed Camlin into the woods.
They made their way in silence, Storm shadowing them, rustling through the undergrowth. The woodland was dense with flowering bluebell and ramsons, the strong scent of the white flowers filling the air as they passed through it. Before long the woodland changed, opening into deep-shaded beech, and soon after they were standing on the edge of a rolling meadow, steep hills in the distance. The village that the fleet of fisher-boats had set sail from was visible, smokehouses lining the coast, buildings of thatch further back, spread along the banks of a river. Clustered beyond them the land was filled with tents, paddocks and lots of men. A road stretched into the distance, skirting the river. It was dotted with more men on horseback.
Camlin sucked his teeth and spat.
‘What’s going on?’ Dath whispered.
‘Unless I’m mistaken, that looks like a warband,’ Camlin muttered. ‘What it’s doing here, though . . .’
As they stood there staring, the drum of hooves reached their ears. Horsemen crested a rise in the meadow before them, five or six, spread in a line, heading their way. Sunlight glinted on coats of mail and spear-tips. Camlin swore.
‘Back into the trees,’ he snapped. ‘And, Dath, best you string your bow.’
CHAPTER TEN
TUKUL
Tukul blinked sweat from his eyes, gritted his teeth as he held his pose in the sword dance and focused on keeping the tip of his practice sword perfectly still. His thighs and shoulders were burning, trembling with the effort.
When did this start getting harder? he wondered. Fifty-eight summers is not so old. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even and smooth. Then, as if responding to some unheard bell, he relaxed. He rolled his shoulders and looked about at the others with whom he stood in rank – about three score men and women – all sheened with sweat. We are all older now, he grimaced, though not too old, I hope. ‘Soon,’ he whispered, both a promise and a prayer.
They were gathered in a courtyard built between the roots of a great tree that towered high above them, its branches arcing, blotting out the sun, its trunk wider that any keep he had ever seen.
Drassil.
The fabled city of Forn Forest, built by giants about and beneath the roots of the Great Tree: lost, hidden for countless generations until he had come here with his band of warriors. Five score they had numbered. They were fewer now, some taken by sickness, others by Forn’s predators. One they had parted with during their travels. And patiently they had waited.
Tukul swatted sweat from his nose. ‘Or maybe not so patiently,’ he muttered with a scowl.
People were beginning to spar now, the clack-clack of their practice blades growing about him. He looked for someone to try himself against, then heard running footsteps.
A figure burst into the courtyard – Enkara, black hair streaked with silver and tied at her nape, her sword hilt arching over one shoulder. She searched the courtyard, eyes fixing on him.
‘Someone comes,’ she called, a tremor in her voice.
Everyone froze.
Without a word, Tukul left the courtyard, stooping to collect his curved sword. Slinging its harness over his shoulder, he strode purposefully towards the outer wall.
They had been here over fourteen years, and in that time they had made Drassil habitable. More than that, they had made it defendable again, shearing vines from walls, repairing stonework, mapping the labyrinthine catacombs that burrowed for leagues beneath his feet. He grimaced as he passed a handful of cairns, eyes drawn to where his Daria was buried.
All those who had been in the courtyard followed silently behind him, Enkara half running to keep up with his long strides. He leaped up the steps on the outer wall two at a time, stood above the gateway and looked out into Forn.
A strip of land a hundred paces deep had been cleared beyond the wall, to keep the encroaching forest at bay. Into this clearing strode a figure, cloaked and hooded, a sword at its hip.
The figure stopped, pushed his hood back and looked up at the walls.
Tukul squinted, then smiled. ‘Open the gates
,’ he cried as he made his way through the crowd gathered behind him and ran through the gates. He reached the figure, gripped his wrist and pulled him into an embrace.
‘It is good to see you, Meical,’ he whispered, looking up at the dark-haired man.
‘And you, old friend.’
Soon they stood inside the walls of Drassil, every last man and woman gathered about them.
‘You have worked hard here,’ Meical said, looking about. ‘Accomplished much.’
‘I should hope so.’ Tukul snorted. ‘We have had long enough.’ He stared at Meical, realizing that the man looked no different from the last time he had seen him – his hair still jet black, only the faintest of lines around his eyes. He still looked as if he had been through a war, though, and was marked by his battles. Wounded inside as much as out. Silver scars raked one side of Meical’s face.
‘Why are you here?’ Tukul asked.
‘I have grim tidings. Aquilus is dead.’
‘What? No.’ Aquilus was important, had a part to play. ‘What of the child?’ Tukul gasped.
‘He is a child no longer,’ Meical said, his scars creasing as he smiled. ‘He is well. Very well, the last I saw him.’
‘You have seen him? How long ago?’
‘Almost a year, now. I left him and came in search of you. This place is not the easiest to find.’
‘Hah,’ Tukul barked a laugh. ‘That I know. And . . . my son? You have seen my son?’
‘Yes. He has grown into a fine man. He has served you well, brought you honour.’
Tukul grinned and blinked away tears.
‘There is more that I have come to tell,’ Meical said. He drew in a deep breath, blew it out slowly. ‘Things are changing, moving quicker, in different ways from how I ever imagined. There is war to the south, rumours of war in the west. Asroth is moving. I think there should be a change of plan.’
Tukul felt a fist clench in his gut, a sharp bolt of excitement after so many years of waiting, preparing.
‘Tell me, how many men would be enough to keep the spear safe?’
Tukul smiled.
‘Ten.’
