by John Gwynne
‘That’s Romar’s sword,’ Gerda said, ‘or I’m a fisherman’s wife. The question,’ Gerda said to Orgull, ‘is do we believe you?’
‘Why else would we come here?’ Tahir blurted. ‘Speeding like Asroth were on our heels to give you warning.’ He looked at his hands, raw and blistered from rowing.
‘Yes, why else would you come here?’ Gerda mused.
‘Do you want a reward for this?’ Varick asked, still staring at the sword.
‘Kill Jael, that’ll be reward enough,’ Maquin snarled.
Gerda looked at him. ‘Is this some blood-feud between you and Jael? And you would have us do your work for you?’
‘He has cause for blood-feud with Jael,’ Orgull said. ‘As do you. As do I. I am Orgull, captain of the Gadrai, and I have come to you out of loyalty to Isiltir, out of a desire to see justice done. And to stop Isiltir being used as a pawn in the coming war that will overrun the Banished Lands. If we are deceiving you, or wrong, then nothing will happen. If we are right, Jael will be at your gates soon, probably demanding that Haelan become his ward until the boy is of age. Jael means to rule Isiltir, and he will commit betrayal and murder to do it. He already has.’ Orgull shrugged. ‘Do not believe us – that is your choice – but in Elyon’s name, choose to be wise. Send out scouts to see if a warband approaches from the south. Gather your warriors about you, make ready. Just in case.’
‘Better to stay safe than sorry, my mam used to say,’ muttered Tahir.
‘Wise words,’ said Orgull.
Maquin stepped forward. ‘Jael can pour honey on his words, but make no mistake: once he has Haelan in his power, he will kill him.’ Maquin looked down. ‘I have seen what he is prepared to do.’
‘No one will harm a hair on my son’s head,’ Gerda said fiercely. ‘I will die first.’
You may get a chance to prove that.
‘I’ll send out scouts,’ Varick said, ‘and make sure my warriors are sober and ready.’ He looked at his sister. ‘It will do no harm.’
‘My lord, call in from your lands all warriors sworn to you that you can. The fate of Isiltir could be decided in the next few days,’ Orgull urged.
‘So you say. Perhaps I will do as you suggest. And if you are speaking the truth, then you will have my thanks.’
Gerda rose and strode to them, standing and looking deep into each one’s face. Her expression hardened. ‘Fetch Haelan,’ she said over her shoulder to a shieldman who had been standing in the shadows of her chair. ‘I believe them.’
‘There they are,’ Tahir said, pointing one of his long arms. Maquin followed and saw a shadow in the distance.
‘They have crossed the river already,’ Maquin observed.
It was just a day later and they were standing on Dun Kellen’s battlements, close to the gate, warriors lined along the wall either side of them. Varick’s messengers had been sent out to the holds but they knew it would take time for the men to muster. Time they didn’t have. Nearby, the stone wall and battlements were replaced by wooden planks to fill the crumbling gaps of the fortress.
The warband quickly grew larger, a cloud of dust kicked up by the horses. Maquin could see Jael at the front, beside his banner-man, his pennant snapping in their wake. Varick had ordered that the streets of Dun Kellen be evacuated but there were still people to be seen. As the sound of the approaching warband filled the air a sudden sense of panic seemed to spread, people hurrying, running for shelter.
The warband reached the outskirts of Dun Kellen. Riders from the flanks peeled away and began circling the town, filtering into side streets whilst the bulk of the warband rode up the main avenue leading to Dun Kellen’s gates.
‘I remember wiping the snot from his nose,’ Gerda said as she watched Jael approach. ‘I wonder what terms he will offer for the head of my son.’ Maquin looked at her but said nothing, remembering Jael and Kastell fighting in the cavern beneath Haldis. Seeing Jael plunge his sword into Kastell’s stomach. His fingers twitched and he reached for his sword.
‘Be ready,’ Orgull said as the riders appeared. Screams were rising from the town, people were scattering in the wide avenue before Jael and his shieldmen as they thundered into view. Someone slipped in the road and disappeared under the flood of horses, screams quickly cut short, then in a spray of mud Jael pulled his warriors up, about a hundred paces before the gate.
‘Let’s hear his terms,’ Varick said, stepping forward to stand on the arch above the gateway. Jael clicked his horse on, a spear held loosely in his hand. Only his banner-man accompanied him.
‘Greetings, Jael, and welcome to Dun Kellen, kinsman. What brings you here?’ Varick called down.
Jael’s eyes were fixed on Varick. He turned his horse in a tight circle. As he came back round out of the turn he hurled his spear. It flew straight, striking Varick in the throat and throwing him backwards in a spray of blood. Jael wheeled his horse and galloped back to his cheering men.
On the wall men were yelling in shock and horror, warriors letting spears fly at the retreating Jael. They all missed. Maquin looked at the form of Varick, blood splattered about his corpse; Gerda and a huddle of others were staring at him, wide-eyed. Then Maquin looked back to Jael punching the air as he reached his gathered warriors, men jumping from horses now, chopping with axes at the timber frames of houses.
Jael did not come to offer terms.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CYWEN
Cywen could not believe her eyes. Pendathran, King Brenin’s battlechief, was staring back at her. But he was dead, had fallen in the feast-hall the night Dun Carreg fell. Or so she had been told. What was Evnis doing with him locked in his cellar?
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Pendathran said, his voice hoarse.
‘Don’t know,’ Cywen said automatically.
‘Water?’ he asked.
She looked about, but could see no jug or water barrel. She shook her head.
‘Quick, girl, help me up.’
Cywen took his hand and pulled him upright. There were deep cuts on his exposed forearm, part-scabbed and weeping blood. He towered above her, taking long, ragged breaths. The bandage around his neck was crusted black with blood.
‘Put your arm round me,’ Cywen said and steered him out of the cell. They weaved through the cellar to the boarded doorway. Cywen propped Pendathran against a wall and set to levering boards from the door frame. She was acutely aware of the noise she was making, and kept taking furtive glances at the shadowed staircase.
‘Looking won’t make you any quieter, or quicker,’ Pendathran croaked. He picked up a discarded axe leaning against the wall and tried to help her.
Cywen shot him a scowl and set to the last board. With a creak it pulled free.
Cywen pulled a fresh torch from her bag and sparked it with tinder and flint. ‘Come on,’ she said and led Pendathran into the darkness of the tunnels.
When they finally emerged from the cave onto the beach Pendathran sank to the sand. It was still dark but the moon was fading, pale and wan as dawn greyed the land.
Cywen could not believe they had made it this far. Pendathran had staggered through the tunnels, at times semi-conscious. When alert he asked for news, information about what was happening in Dun Carreg. In return she discovered that it was Evnis who had imprisoned him. Evnis who knew about the tunnels, had access to them.
The worst of their passage through the tunnels had been when they’d come upon the well, where the path spiralled around the deep hole. Cywen still did not know how Pendathran had managed to avoid toppling into the dark emptiness. But somehow he had. The rest of the journey had passed into terror-filled nightmare, Cywen constantly pausing to listen for the pursuit she expected at any moment: the baying of Evnis’ hounds catching her scent, the sound of running feet, the shouts of her trackers as they saw her. But it had not happened, and now they were here, on the beach of Havan, just before the sun rose and betrayed them to the world.
Frantically she l
ooked around. She had given little thought to what they would do if they made it this far. She scanned the shore, eyes drawn again to where Dath’s boat was usually beached. Then an idea sparked. ‘We cannot rest here,’ she said, looping an arm under Pendathran’s. He groaned but struggled to his feet.
They splashed through shallow pools, crabs scuttling out of their way, then along the path to the village, past the smokehouses, until Cywen saw a small house.
Dath’s house.
The door was open. The smell that greeted them was stale and musty. The place had been ransacked: tables and chairs overturned, cupboards open, emptied. Probably Owain’s men when they occupied the town during the siege, before they moved into Dun Carreg.
There was a barrel with cold fresh rainwater by the back door. Cywen fetched some for Pendathran, who had collapsed onto a sagging cot. He drank and drank, water spilling over his face, soaking his beard. Cywen had to pull the jug from his lips, worrying that he would vomit.
‘I will bring you food when I can,’ she said to Pendathran. ‘I will try tonight, though Evnis has had me watched.’
‘Why, girl?’ Pendathran mumbled.
‘I’m not sure – maybe he thinks I can lead him to Corban, and Edana.’ She shrugged. ‘You must stay out of sight. Stay here until I return.’
‘No chance of me going far,’ Pendathran said.
Cywen stood there, worrying, then turned on her heel and sped to the door.
‘Girl,’ Pendathran called after her. She stopped and looked back.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
She flashed him a quick smile and ran.
After a brief hesitation she turned towards the village. With every passing moment it was more likely that Evnis would discover Pendathran had escaped. Surely he would have men search the tunnels for him.
As the sun rose she mingled with labourers from the village who were making their way up to the fortress. She pulled her hood up and slipped across the bridge and through Stonegate unnoticed. Once back in Dun Carreg she ran through the stone-paved backstreets, skirting her house to climb alley walls and slip in through her garden. Buddai greeted her with a wagging tail as she strode across the kitchen and peered out of her window. A shadow still occupied a doorway across the street, though now it was slumped on the floor, sleeping. She felt exhausted, but knew that if she lay down she would probably sleep half the day. That she must not do. Give the spy no reason to report to Evnis, nothing to raise his suspicions. So she broke her fast with some bacon and honey-cakes, half of which she fed to a drooling Buddai, and then set about her usual daily tasks. She made her way to the stables, where she harnessed up selected horses for warriors to train with in the Rowan Field. One of the horses was Shield. She took her time with him, gave him an extra apple and scowled at the man that climbed into his saddle. It was Drust, the red-haired warrior from Narvon, the one in the feast-hall who had told her to take Buddai, the day after Dun Carreg had fallen.
As the day wore on she felt a tension growing in her gut. There was something she must do.
Evnis must surely know Pendathran had escaped by now. He would scour the tunnels searching for him, but he would not risk baying hounds during the day – Pendathran was clearly a closely guarded secret, one that King Owain knew nothing about, and Evnis was not fool enough to draw attention with a full hunt in broad daylight. He would not risk his hounds beyond the tunnels until nightfall, surely. That meant Cywen had some time to do what was necessary. She steeled herself, then set about the task.
The sun was sinking towards the ocean when she left her home, her bag slung over her back. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, knowing that someone would be shadowing her, and made her way to the stables.
Once there she slipped inside an empty stall. Quickly, she tied her hair back tight to her head, stuffed straw inside her tunic until it was near bursting, then drew a cloak from her bag, pulling the hood up. She emptied the contents of her bag into a saddlebag. Finally she shouldered a saddle and tack as well as the saddlebag. Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the stables and walked purposefully across the yard. She noticed Conall leaning beside a water barrel, eyes fixed on the stable door. She smiled as she walked away from him into the streets of the fortress.
As soon as she was out of sight she dumped the saddle and tack, heading with speed towards her quarry: Evnis’ tower. She paused, stepped into deep shadows caused by the sinking sun, then made her way furtively along Evnis’ wall. When she judged she was in the right place she stopped, testing the mortar between the wall’s stones with a finger. It was soft and crumbling, succumbing to years of salt in the air. She looked about once more, the street empty, silent, then drew two of her knives, stabbed them into gaps in the stone and began hauling herself up the wall. Dath had taught her how to do this – if he couldn’t climb a wall, then it couldn’t be climbed, though she’d never tell him that.
When she reached the top she wriggled forwards, hooked one arm over the wall, and smiled grimly to herself. A low-roofed building stretched before her. Evnis’ kennels. She unslung her saddlebag, undoing the buckle with her teeth and spare hand.
A hound walked out of the kennel, tall and scar-eared. It stretched and sniffed, its head snapping round, catching her scent. Then it saw her and let out a great, baying howl. Other dogs flowed from the kennel, began barking and jumping at the wall. Panicking now, she emptied the contents of the saddlebag, lumps of meat showering the area. The dogs immediately began to wolf them down, snapping and snarling at one another.
A voice called out; a blond-haired figure appeared – Rafe.
Cywen ducked from view, half slid, half fell from the wall, then sprinted into the shadows. She wiped tears from her eyes. Evnis’ hounds would not be hunting Pendathran tonight.
Cywen led the stallion through the tree-lined path into the Rowan Field. She had tried not to bring him, had used every excuse besides actually making him lame, but Drust had stepped in, examined Shield himself and declared him fit for use. He had looked at Cywen suspiciously, so she had ceased any more protests, knowing that Drust could stop her working in the stables if he wished.
He was waiting for her, in the Field. He strode over, smiling at Shield.
‘He’s a fine animal,’ he said, his eyes fixed on Shield. He ran a hand down a foreleg, lifted it to examine the hoof. ‘See, I told you, girl, there’s nothing wrong with him.’
‘I was mistaken,’ Cywen muttered, handing him the reins.
‘That you were,’ Drust said, swinging into the saddle. ‘Best not get too attached to this one,’ he said, pulling Shield in a tight circle, ‘he’s a warhorse, if ever I saw one. Was made for battle.’ He kicked his heels and Shield leaped away with a spray of turf.
Cywen watched as Drust urged Shield into a gallop, charging at the straw targets at the far end of the Field. With a battle-cry he left his spear quivering in one of them.
She skirted the edge of the Field, making for the outer wall that ringed the whole fortress. It was early but the sun was already hot, spring sliding steadily into summer. As she passed the weapons court she caught a glimpse of Rafe sparring. He was fighting an older, heavier man and seemed to be holding his own. Even as she watched, he swung a hard blow that whistled through his opponent’s defence, cracking him on the shoulder.
She felt a pang of guilt at seeing Rafe, her thoughts turning instantly to the hounds that she had poisoned. Most had died, only a couple surviving, though they were still weak and emaciated two ten-nights later. Cywen was surprised any had lived – she had mixed a concoction that her da used to give his whelping bitches, both as a painkiller and a sedative, though she had made it ten times as potent as her da had.
Rafe was walking towards her from the weapons court. He had a slight limp, a reminder of the wound her brother had given him on the night Dun Carreg had fallen.
‘No girls on the Field,’ Rafe said to her as he drew near.
She ignored him and strode on, passing a h
uge pen on her path to the wall. A horrible smell came from it – rotting flesh and something worse. It was where Nathair kept his pet draig. Wide stone steps were hewn into the wall, made for giant strides. She looked back into the draig’s pen as she climbed higher, caught a glimpse of it spilling from the burrow it had dug in the ground. She was sweating when she reached the top of the wall; the breeze up here was fresh and welcome. She leaned on the battlements and looked out beyond the fortress. It felt as if she could see the whole world. To the west the sea was a bright shimmering blanket in the summer sun, the sky and horizon so clear she could almost see the coast of Cambren, a smudge at the edge of her vision. She turned west and south, the river Tarin a bright line twisting through the landscape, through the dark of Baglun Forest. I hope Pendathran still lives, she thought.
King Brenin’s old battlechief had stayed just one night in Dath’s abandoned cottage; Cywen had brought him food and water the night she had poisoned the hounds. He had stayed there the next day, sleeping, then set out the following night. Cywen had told him all that she knew, of Queen Rhin’s invasion of Narvon, the imminent battle looming between her and Owain. Of how rumour said that a resistance against Owain was growing in Ardan, based around the swamps and marshes in the west. That had been enough for Pendathran – he hadn’t told her where he was going, but the look in his eyes had been enough.
‘Come with me,’ he had said. ‘There’s nothing for you here now.’
She had been tempted, but something held her back. Dun Carreg was her home. Buddai would be able to come with her, but not Shield. Who would look after him? I could steal Shield, take him with me. But she’d be followed. She was already being watched by Conall. If her kin were hiding in the west she could end up leading Evnis straight to them. No. Not yet. Best let Pendathran find safety, and maybe I’ll follow.
