by John Gwynne
Peritus bent down and rolled the body over. It was decomposing, chunks of flesh missing, but Fidele still recognized the nervous-looking youth that had been led into her chambers only a ten-night ago and told her of the Vin Thalun fighting pits.
Jace. His throat had been cut, the flesh frayed like rotted string.
Peritus spat on the floor. ‘So this is how Lykos obeys your commands.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
VERADIS
The army marched through the twilight of Forn, Alcyon’s bulk marking the column’s head. Veradis felt sluggish and ill-tempered after sleeping poorly, disturbed by bad dreams. In them he’d been riding across an endless meadow, the head of King Mandros held aloft on his spear-point. Murderer, Mandros’ head had whispered to him, over and over. Something had been bouncing against his leg. When he’d looked down he found Kastell’s head tied to his saddle. Betrayer, his friend had accused him.
He shook his head, banishing the nightmare, then saw Calidus drop back down the column towards him.
‘There you are,’ the silver-haired man said as he fell in beside Veradis. There was a new energy about the man since he had emerged from the catacombs beneath Haldis, a fierce determination in his expression.
‘We are making good progress,’ Calidus said. The hard pace had been set from the first day out from Haldis, four days ago. Veradis had woken the day after the battle to the news that King Braster of Helveth had been murdered in his tent by survivors of the Gadrai, Isiltir’s elite warriors. That had made no sense to Veradis – the realms of Isiltir and Helveth had been on good terms, but Lothar, Braster’s battlechief, had witnessed the deed and told Calidus personally. This news had troubled Calidus and he had ordered all haste in breaking camp and leaving Haldis. We must speed Jael to claim Isiltir’s crown, he had said.
‘I have been talking to Jael,’ Calidus said. ‘He is not as strong willed as I would like in an ally, but he is all we have, and we need Isiltir’s support.’
Veradis frowned at Calidus, suspicious of where this was leading.
‘Isiltir will be rocked by the news of Romar’s death. There will be others who will try to take advantage of the situation, try to claim the throne for themselves. Not least Romar’s estranged wife.’
‘What of Romar’s son?’ Veradis asked.
‘He is ten years old. Jael will rule with the boy as his ward, until he comes of age.’
‘Unless the boy’s mother has anything to say about it.’
‘Exactly. And she has the boy in her care, which gives her the advantage. Especially if those survivors of the Gadrai reach Isiltir ahead of us and warn her of all that has happened here,’ Calidus said. ‘Jael could do with some leverage, in the form of a warband, I am thinking.’
‘He has men,’ Veradis said, gesturing up the column, where Jael marched with his shieldmen about him.
‘Some – a few score here, some others at Mikil, but not enough to be convincing. We need Isiltir; Nathair needs Isiltir. It would be better if we could show our support . . .’
‘No,’ Veradis said. ‘I am Nathair’s first-sword, and I am going straight to him.’
Calidus raised an eyebrow and seemed to consider pressing the point, then shrugged. ‘As you say. And you are probably not best suited to the task. Lykos and his Vin Thalun, however – they would be perfect.’
‘That would take too long – by the time you sent word back to Tenebral, and then the time it took Lykos to reach Isiltir.’
‘Yes, unless Lykos had already left Tenebral and was sailing to meet us at Ardan,’ Calidus said, a smile twitching his beard.
‘But how?’
Calidus winked at Veradis. ‘I may look like a withered old man, but sometimes appearances can be deceiving. And where there is a will . . .’
There was a commotion up ahead, Alcyon calling a halt. The column rippled to a stop.
‘With me,’ Calidus said as he marched forward.
One of their scouts had returned, was talking to Alcyon, gesturing into the trees.
‘What is it?’ Calidus demanded.
‘Tracks in the forest, signs of a camp,’ the scout said.
‘How many?’ Calidus frowned.
‘Two, maybe three. The fire was burned out, but still warm.’
‘It is the Gadrai,’ Jael said. He had sidled up behind Calidus and Veradis.
‘Perhaps,’ Calidus murmured.
‘Take me to this camp,’ Veradis said to the scout.
Away from the path, the forest closed about them like a malignant wound, dark and treacherous. The scout led them through thick foliage and hanging vine. Dense webs draped the branches, in one of them hung the husk of something, a bat perhaps.
The ground turned spongier and soon they splashed across a shallow stream, the scout stopping on the far bank. He pointed to a pile of ash inside a ring of loose stones. Veradis bent and sifted the ash, rubbing his fingers together. There was a touch of warmth left, faint as the daylight in this forest.
Alcyon scanned the ground, Jael and a dozen of his shieldmen fanning out. The giant bent and scooped something up, a tattered piece of cloth. He sniffed it. ‘Smells of blood. One of them is injured,’ he said.
‘Which way?’ Jael said. ‘If one is injured we can catch them.’
The scout pointed into the gloom and Jael marched into the forest. ‘Stay close to me; they are the Gadrai – giant-killers, and they know this forest better than any.’
Veradis thought there was an edge of panic in Jael’s voice. He shared a look with Alcyon. Shall we follow?
‘Calidus will be unhappy if we return without him,’ the giant said.
Veradis shrugged and followed Jael, Alcyon close behind him.
They laboured through the forest; the going was slow as they searched for signs of their quarry’s passing. Soon they spread out into a line that grew more ragged as time passed. All except Alcyon were murky shadows amongst the trees. The axe strapped across his back drew Veradis’ eye, dark blades fanning out above the giant’s shoulders like wings.
‘Is that really one of the Seven Treasures?’ Veradis asked.
‘Yes,’ Alcyon said.
‘How old is it?’
Alcyon shrugged. ‘Two, three thousand years. And it is still sharp.’
‘I know, I saw you fight with it at Haldis.’
A frown crossed Alcyon’s face. Was he thinking of the giant children, of their guardian whom Calidus had slain.
‘I did not know . . .’ Veradis started, trailing off. ‘About giant’s children.’
Alcyon looked at him. ‘We have children. Just not as many as you men. That is why they are precious to us.’ Something swept his face, a fleeting raw emotion, then it was gone. ‘At Haldis, so many of them killed.’ He shook his head.
‘Yes,’ Veradis agreed. ‘These are difficult times.’
‘We are at war,’ Alcyon said. ‘A war begun thousands of years ag°.’
Veradis looked about – the others were a distance away, only shadows amongst the trees – and lowered his voice. ‘I am thankful that one of the Ben-Elim stands with us. It makes the difficult things easier, somehow.’
A silence grew between them, man and giant focusing on their path through the forest. Veradis could not shake from his mind the look that he had seen sweep Alcyon’s face as they had talked of giant children. A look of naked misery.
Time passed, and Veradis was thinking of calling a halt and turning back when he saw something: a snapped stalk amongst foliage that draped a massive trunk. It could have been caused by Alcyon as he passed. Veradis stopped; Alcyon was fading into the gloom ahead. He looked intently at the broken stalk, then his gaze swept the surrounding area. There was a mark on the bark of the trunk – a scuff? Then something dripped onto his shoulder, something dark. He touched it, raised a finger to his tongue. His head snapped up as he reached for his sword. It was blood.
From branches above a dirt-stained face was peering down at him. He drew his sword, suc
ked in a breath to call Alcyon, then in front of him a figure stepped out from behind the tree, at the same time foliage rustling behind him. His call for help died in his throat as he gazed at the man standing before him.
Maquin.
The grey-haired warrior held a hand up, signalling to the unseen man behind him, and Veradis knew his life hung in the balance, as did theirs. One call from him and Alcyon, Jael and a dozen warriors would be on them. Carefully, slowly, he lowered his sword, holding Maquin’s gaze.
‘It is good to see you,’ he said.
Maquin grimaced, eyes flickering to the figure behind Veradis. He shook his head. Veradis resisted the urge to turn, kept his eyes fixed on Maquin. ‘Kastell?’ he asked.
Grief twisted Maquin’s face. ‘Jael killed him.’
Veradis hung his head. ‘Was it you that murdered Braster?’
‘No. That was Lothar,’ a voice grated behind him. Maquin nodded confirmation.
Lothar? But, he has been in close council with Calidus.
A voice called from the gloom. ‘Veradis, where are you?’ Alcyon. There was a sound of approaching feet.
He made his decision in an instant. ‘You are being hunted,’ Veradis hissed. ‘Get back into the trees. I will lead them away from you.’
‘Do we trust him?’ the voice behind Veradis said. Maquin looked at Veradis, then nodded.
‘I am sorry,’ Veradis whispered, ‘about Kastell.’
Maquin stepped back into the foliage, pausing before the gloom took him. ‘Before the battle you warned us about what side we were choosing.’
‘Yes,’ Veradis said. ‘I did.’
‘I would give you the same advice,’ Maquin said, then disappeared into the forest.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EVNIS
Evnis stood frozen in the doorway to his secret room. The book was gone. He searched frantically. The casket he had originally found it in was there, the necklace still within it, pulsing with its sickly light, but the book was nowhere to be seen. He stared at the necklace, his gaze sucked into the darkness of the single black stone, the size of his fist, wrapped in twists of silver. Ever since he had laid eyes upon it a suspicion had nagged him. Could it be Nemain’s necklace, one of the Seven Treasures? An ancient relic from when the world was young, if half the tales were true.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, to think. The last time he had used it he had not put the book back in the casket; he had left it sitting on top. He was sure of this, could picture in his mind reading from it, speaking aloud the words of power, then placing the book on to the casket’s lid. That had been days ago – the day Dun Carreg had fallen.
Who could have done this?
Vonn.
But why would he have taken the book? Curiosity? To spite him? They had been arguing over the fisherman’s daughter, Bethan. Maybe he thought to use the book as leverage, a trade – the girl for the book? He almost liked that idea, the thought that Vonn was at last growing up, seeing the world as it really was and being prepared to do what was necessary, regardless of its perceived morality. If it had been anything else that Vonn had taken, he would have been prepared to let it go. But he had taken the book, his access to a world of power. He felt a sudden rage boil inside him and took a shuddering breath. He must get it back.
The tunnels. He suspected that Vonn and his companions had escaped through the secret tunnels beneath the fortress; Evnis had been planning to begin searching them on the morrow. To hell with the morrow, he thought, whirling on his feet and grabbing his sheathed sword and belt as he strode from his tower room.
He called warriors to him as he descended the stairs, sent word for more to be summoned as he made his way to the basement where the boarded-up doorway to the tunnels stood. By the time he had strapped his sword-belt on, ordered the boards torn down from the doorway and lit a torch, almost a score of men had gathered about him, many bleary-eyed, rubbing sleep from their eyes. It is late, Evnis remembered, all thought of time having flown his mind, replaced only by his need to find the book. He looked about, searching for Conall, then remembered he had set him to watch over Cywen, as Nathair had asked of him.
A muffled whimper drifted from a door in the cellar, reminding Evnis of his prisoner. He ignored the sound.
‘With me,’ he said and led his men into the tunnels.
The sun was rising when he at last stepped out of the tunnels, back into his tower; a faint light was seeping down the cellar steps through gaps in the floorboards above. He was dirt stained, weary, and his mood was grim.
Vonn was gone, and with him the book. Of that he was sure.
They had searched long and hard, wary of attack both from Edana’s supporters and wyrms. The headless body of the wyrm that had hatched when he’d found the book was still there, its flesh all but gone, rags of tattered skin draped over its skeleton. He had given it hardly a passing look, though it set his warriors to muttering.
Eventually their search had led them to the lowest cavern, where the sea swelled in a channel. Here Evnis knew was the exit to the beach, though none of his men realized, as there was a glamour hiding the way. There was the body of another wyrm here, this one much bigger than the one in the tunnels above. It had been killed only recently, its body in the first stages of decay – skin bloated and swollen, blood and other fluids leaking from it, pooled and congealed around its coiled body. Its skull had been crushed by a heavy blow, and there were various wounds about its body. If this was not evidence enough of Edana’s passing, they found the corpse of a warrior nearby, his neck and chest torn open. He had been one of Pendathran’s warriors, Evnis was sure.
So, now they were gone, most likely leagues from Dun Carreg by now, and with them the book.
And his son. With a growl he dismissed his trailing warriors and trod wearily up the steps of his tower to his room. There was a message awaiting him – a reminder of Nathair’s request to meet with Rhin. How am I going to do this – Rhin in the Darkwood, Nathair here, Owain and his warbands in between? Evnis reached for the half-filled jug of usque and took a large gulp, slumping into a chair. Almost impossible, but there must be a way. Think. Slowly the glimmer of an idea came to him, but his mind felt slow, could not quite focus on it. I must sleep. A ripple of dread coursed through him. Sleep, and with it the dreams. He chuckled to himself and drank another cup of usque. What did he expect, after selling his soul to Asroth, Lord of the Fallen . . . ?
A knock at his door. Evnis looked about the room, checking that all was ready: a cauldron hung over the fire-pit, water bubbling, a cup of dark liquid standing on a table beside it. He checked his cloak, reassured himself that the letter was still there, then he opened the door.
Nathair was there, the dark shadow of his guardian, Sumur, hovering behind him.
‘My lord, please,’ Evnis said, ushering Nathair in. He held a hand up to Sumur. ‘Only Nathair may enter.’
‘That is not acceptable,’ Sumur said.
‘It is fine, Sumur, I am sure Evnis has good reason. And I am sure I shall be safe. Only a door stands between us.’
Sumur peered into the room, weighing the situation. He nodded. ‘I consider you responsible for my lord’s life, while this door remains shut,’ he said to Evnis.
‘Of course,’ said Evnis and closed the door.
Nathair looked about the room, eyes settling upon the cauldron. He unclasped his sable cloak and draped it across the table.
‘Your message was ambiguous,’ he said, ‘but I am intrigued . . .’
‘Thank you for coming, my lord. I have made arrangements for you to speak with Queen Rhin.’
Nathair raised an eyebrow.
Evnis tried to keep his face calm, to disguise the anxiety he felt. You can do this, he told himself. He had seen it in the book, was confident that he could remember the pages, the incantation, word for word. He licked his lips and strode to the cauldron, lifting the cup from the table.
‘Fuil glacad anios ag namhaid tor oscail an b
ealach, he said, filling the words with as much power as he could summon, and poured the cup of blood into the cauldron. Blood taken from a foe, to open the way. His prisoner, still shackled in a room beneath his feet, hadn’t given up his blood easily and his screams had brought a brief relief from these stressful times. The prisoner could scream as long and as loud as he liked – no one would hear him down there. Evnis had not even bothered placing a guard on his door; there was no point. He could not escape, and even if he did, there was nowhere for him to go.
Evnis reached inside his cloak and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, the letter Rhin had sent to him, delivered by Braith’s outlaw so long ago, written in her spidery hand. He drew his knife, cut his hand and gripped the letter, soaking it in his blood. Then he dropped it into the cauldron.
‘Croi ar an comchor tor stiur an ruthag.’
The water bubbled pink and a vapour hissed out of the pot, swirled upwards, glistening, thick and shiny, like cords of mucus. A shape took form in it, silver-haired, a pale, deeply lined face. Rhin.
‘What is this?’ she said, her likeness turning in the vapour, the voice sounding submerged, muted. Then her sharp eyes focused on Evnis. ‘Oh, it is you. I see you have found the book—’
‘My Queen, I have someone with me who wishes to speak to you, urgently,’ Evnis cut in.
‘I’m sure you do,’ Rhin said, a smile ghosting her lips. ‘Who, exactly?’
‘Let me introduce you to Nathair, King of Tenebral.’
Rhin clapped her hands. ‘Excellent. No need for introductions – we have met before. A charming young man. Well, step forward, Nathair, I imagine we have much to talk about.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CORBAN
Corban listened as Vonn and Farrell told of the ship they had seen land on the beach.
‘They are looking for us,’ Vonn said. ‘A dozen men, all well-armed.’
‘What of my boat?’ Mordwyr interrupted.
‘They were climbing aboard it,’ Farrell said. ‘We did not wait to see what they would do – thought you needed to know.’
