by John Gwynne
‘I’ll see you again, on this side or the other,’ he said.
‘I’m not dead yet,’ Maquin said. Tahir took the boy and ran; Maquin slammed the door shut. He turned and yelled as he swung his sword, stepping into line beside Orgull. ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ breathed Orgull, glancing at Maquin as he swung his axe, severing an extended arm just below the elbow.
‘I’m too old for all this running,’ Maquin said. He lifted his shield high and stabbed a warrior in the gut, one of Jael’s from the way he was dressed. I’m going to die here, Maquin thought as he blocked and stabbed. The thought did not scare him. The thought of failing Kastell hurt far more. At least Tahir has taken Gerda’s boy. That is one oath I have kept, unto death. He smiled grimly. Come then, Death, take me across your bridge of swords, but know this: I won’t be coming alone.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
LYKOS
‘Gerda, where is your son?’
Gerda was tied to a chair, rope burns on her wrists and ankles where she had struggled. Blood speckled her face and one eye was mottled and bruised. It appeared that Jael was not one to spare the rod during questioning. Lykos looked on approvingly.
They were in the feast-hall, corpses strewn about and the stink of death thick in the air. Lykos and his Vin Thalun had used grapple-hooks to scale a high unguarded tower in the fortress. What little resistance they’d met had been surprised and cut down without even slowing them. They had swept into the great hall as Jael had been assaulting the gates, the following slaughter quick and fierce. Gerda had been discovered leading a counter-attack in the corridors. When Lykos arrived the fighting had been furious, her shieldmen savage in their defence of her. And she had not been shy with her blade, either. He might have admired her as a warrior, but for the fact she was a woman. Still, they had been outnumbered, attacked from two sides. It had not taken long.
‘Where is he?’ Jael demanded.
‘Far from your reach,’ Gerda said through swelling lips.
‘Where?’ Jael repeated.
‘I don’t know.’ Gerda’s head lolled, her eyes flickering. Jael slapped her hard with the back of his hand.
‘You’ll not leave us yet,’ he said, then nodded to a man at his side. ‘This is Dag. He is my huntsman, a skilled tracker. He also has other skills, such as how to skin an animal. Usually this skill is reserved for the dead, for good reason. Apparently the pain is unbearable, like nothing else this side of death. He is going to skin you. Going to peel the skin from your fat body, piece by bloated piece, until I have an answer. It will take some time, I should imagine.’ Laughter rippled the room.
Dag stepped forward, a tiny knife in his hand. A warrior clamped Gerda’s wrist, her eyes bulging with fear.
‘First the nails have to come off,’ Dag said as he bent over Gerda. Lykos felt the urge to look away, but resisted. Gerda screamed, a trail of sobs and spluttered half-words between each crescendo of pain.
‘Then the skin is cut, just a little,’ Dag said over Gerda’s ragged breaths.
Footsteps from beyond the feast-hall clattered, and a warrior hurried to Jael’s side.
‘We have encountered strong resistance, my lord,’ the warrior said as he bowed.
Jael waved a hand. ‘Take more men and crush it.’
‘It, it is not so easy,’ the man said, looking uncomfortable.
‘How many,’ Jael snapped, eyes still on Gerda.
‘Two, my lord.’ That got his attention. ‘They have barricaded the corridor.’
‘With what?’
‘Our dead. It is hard to explain, but I do not think it will be easy to finish them.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In the cellars, my lord.’
Gerda’s head snapped up at that, noticed by Lykos as well as Jael.
‘Let’s have a look at this resistance, then,’ Jael said, striding to the tower. ‘And bring Gerda,’ he called over his shoulder.
Lykos walked beside Jael, warriors behind them, and further back a handful of men carrying Gerda still strapped to her chair.
The corridor was high and wide, with flickering torches breaking up the darkness. Ahead of Lykos stood a dozen or so men, all with weapons held ready. They parted for Lykos and Jael.
The floor was slippery, covered in blood, gore, bodies, severed limbs. It was thick with them. Two men stood further up the passage; Lykos recognized them instantly. The bald giant and his companion from the bridge. The ones who had slain Thaan. Deinon knew them as well; Lykos heard his shieldman draw in a sharp breath and felt his weight as he made to push past.
‘Wait,’ Lykos barked at Deinon, holding a restraining arm out.
Jael recognized them too, by the look on his face.
‘Ironic. The last time I saw you, Maquin, we were underground,’ Jael said.
The smaller man took a step forwards, a look of such hatred sweeping his face that Jael took an involuntary step back.
‘Question is, what are you fighting so hard to keep us from?’
‘Why don’t you come and take a look?’ Maquin invited. Grey streaked his hair, where it wasn’t gore splattered, but judging by the corpses piled high about him he was not too old to use a blade.
Jael raised an arm, summoning Gerda’s chair-bearers forward. They placed her before the two warriors. Lykos studied her face, saw a question bleeding out through her pain. The big man gave an almost invisible nod and she sagged back in her chair.
‘You know where her boy is, then,’ Jael said. It wasn’t a question. ‘Spears,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘They cannot kill him,’ Deinon whispered to Lykos. ‘The bald one – he is mine, for Thaan . . .’
Lykos stepped forward, uncurling the grapple rope that was wrapped about his waist. He swung it once over his head, flicked his wrist and then its end was snaking forwards, wrapped around Maquin’s sword wrist. Before the warrior realized what was happening Lykos tugged hard, dragging the man forwards, and Deinon was surging towards him, knocking the sword from the man’s hand and placing his own blade at the warrior’s throat.
The big man took a step.
‘No, Orgull,’ Maquin snapped.
‘Deinon,’ Lykos said, and Deinon had a knife in his other hand, had sliced quicker than Lykos’ eyes could follow. Blood spurted and then Deinon was holding up a scrap of flesh.
Maquin’s ear.
Orgull took another step forwards.
‘My man can keep cutting chunks out of him all day,’ Lykos said. ‘Want him to stop – you drop that axe.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CORBAN
Corban shouted a warning, seeing wolven everywhere, leaping into the hollow. Instantly all was madness. The wolven were not on a side, did not care who was from Ardan or Cambren; they were here to feast, and they were taking meat where they found it. Horses screamed from where they had been hobbled, wild and terror stricken, the sound echoing around the rock walls. Craf exploded upwards in a burst of feathers and squawks as a wolven snapped at him. Corban saw men wrenched from battle, mauled in slavering jaws, saw hounds scattered like flotsam and two wolven rolling in savage battle. One dark, one white. Storm. He felt a rush of fear, the thought of Storm dying launching him into movement. The two wolven were a mass of fur and teeth and claws. For a moment they separated. Corban saw blood on Storm’s white fur. He lunged at the other wolven, burying his sword in its belly. It yelped and writhed, a claw slicing his shoulder. He pushed harder, deeper, his sword-point piercing the creature’s heart. It sagged, its heart’s blood a hot flood.
Storm limped up, her side matted with blood, claw marks raking one side of her muzzle. Corban buried his fingers in her fur and she stepped closer to him, pressing her head against his chest. ‘Good girl,’ he said quietly, felt an echo of the fear that had consumed him, that she would be slain. So loyal, fighting for us, for me, even to death. And it’s not over yet.
Where’s Mam and Gar? He scanned the dell desperately, but could make litt
le of the nightmare visions set against the flickering light of the burning branch that Heb and Brina had just ignited.
There was a snarl behind him and he twisted on his heel to see another wolven, muscles bunching, about to spring. Then his mam was beside him, thrusting her spear. Gar spun past them, sword flashing and suddenly the wolven was whining, scrabbling away from the double attack.
Everywhere, forms were silhouetted by flames. Corban saw two figures side by side, firing arrow after arrow into a mass of wolven and warriors. Camlin and Dath. A wolven jumped at the two archers and they scattered, leaping different ways. Dath rolled on the ground, tangled in his bow as the wolven surged towards him. Then Anwarth dashed between them, screaming at the wolven, trying to distract it from Dath. It worked. The creature sprang, all teeth and muscle, as Anwarth tried to block it with his battered shield. But the wolven knocked aside the shield as if it were a child’s plaything and, jaws clamping about Anwarth’s waist, heaved him from the ground. Corban heard the sound of ribs snapping.
Farrell screamed and charged the beast; Dath loosed arrow after arrow into the wolven as it shook Anwarth. Corban ran forwards, sword raised high. Arrows pin-cushioned the beast as Camlin joined Dath. The wolven dropped Anwarth, took an unsteady step, then Corban and Farrell were there, sword and hammer a series of flashes in the firelight. The wolven stumbled and fell.
There was still chaos everywhere, figures fighting, running, screaming, wolven snarling, leaping, tearing at anything that moved. Farrell cradled Anwarth’s head in his lap. The warrior coughed blood, his breathing shallow.
Then Brina and Heb were beside them, Heb blood-soaked, his arm hanging limp. They joined hands and shouted into the chaos, their voices a thunderclap. There was a cracking sound; the trees that ringed the bowl about them swayed, rippling, although there was no wind. Then there were sparks everywhere, wood splintering and the trees were bursting into flame. Instantly the dell was transformed, as bright as highsun, a wave of heat searing Corban’s face, flames arching high from the treetops, the smell of scorched sap and woodsmoke thick in the air.
The wolven scattered in all directions, whining, howling as they went. Only Storm stayed, pushing in close to Corban, snarling at the flaming trees and the retreating wolven.
People stood about the glade, panting, confused. The surviving attackers scrambled back down the mountain path; only a handful of them were left. Craf came fluttering out of the dark, perched on the shoulder of a dead wolven and started pecking at its eye.
‘Where is Edana?’ Marrock called, blood soaking the bandages that bound his wrist.
‘I am here,’ a voice said.
‘We must leave, now,’ Camlin ordered.
‘The dead?’ Corban asked.
‘They must stay where they lie. Those wolven won’t be gone for long.’
‘But the fire?’ Edana said.
‘It will go out. We move. Now,’ Camlin grabbed Edana by the wrist and strode away.
The others stood a moment, frozen, then Halion was shoving them on.
Corban touched Farrell on the shoulder, his friend still sitting with Anwarth’s head on his lap. The warrior’s eyes stared sightlessly, his body still.
‘Come, Farrell. He’s gone,’ Corban said.
Farrell looked up at him. ‘He saved my life.’
‘Aye. Don’t throw it away now.’
‘Corban’s right,’ Halion said. ‘Come on, lad.’
Farrell stood and lifted his da into his arms.
‘Lay him down, lad,’ Halion said gently. ‘You’ll break an ankle soon enough.’
‘No,’ Farrell snarled. The look on his face silenced any response. With that they hurried from the dell, picking their way through the bodies that littered the ground, men and wolven and horses. Corban felt sick at the sight and smell of it. Will death follow us wherever we go?
Camlin was already some way ahead. He had lit a branch from a smouldering tree and Halion did the same. The path narrowed and steepened immediately, the ground quickly becoming treacherous. Soon they had caught up with their companions.
They trudged on, ever upward, stumbling, supporting one another. Corban’s lungs were burning, his eyes stinging from sweat when Camlin dropped back to them. He shared some whispered words with Halion, who sped up and took the lead.
Camlin’s eyes roamed the steep ridges about them, searching the shadows.
‘Do you think the wolven will attack again?’ Corban asked him, his voice a croak.
‘Probably. It’s not as if we’d be hard to find. And we’re still in their territory. Judging by their behaviour in the dell they’re none too happy about that.’ He stopped, looking up high as a stone rattled down the cliff side. Corban froze as well, then saw the shadow of a mountain goat, leaping nimbly between ledges. They started walking again.
‘Craf should know if they come back – he tried to warn us last time,’ Corban said.
‘Did he? Well, that’s good t’know. Though he probably can’t see as well in the dark. And those wolven could sniff us out with their eyes closed.’
That’s comforting.
Camlin was limping, using his bow as a staff. His face was grime streaked, blood caking a cut on his scalp. Corban remembered the first time he’d seen him in Dun Carreg, King Brenin’s prisoner. Then again in the Darkwood, an outlaw working for Braith, part of the attempt on Queen Alona’s life. But something had made Camlin turn then, and Corban had seen him protecting Cywen, standing against Morcant, Rhin’s own champion. So much has changed since then. They would have been dead a dozen times over if not for Camlin, probably more.
‘Thank you,’ Corban said, not realizing he’d spoken out loud.
‘What?’ Camlin said.
‘I was just thinking,’ Corban stuttered. ‘You’ve saved my life, our lives. Much more than once. We wouldn’t be here if not for you.’
Camlin looked at him a few moments, looking as if he thought Corban was mocking him. ‘This isn’t the best place to be, y’know.’
‘I mean we wouldn’t have made it this far.’
Camlin’s face softened. He smiled. ‘You’re welcome, lad. Though I think I may have used all my luck up, now.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I don’t believe in luck,’ Corban said.
‘Do you not? What do you believe in, lad.’
Corban thought about that. ‘This.’ He touched the hilt of his sword. ‘Him,’ pointing to Dath. ‘Her,’ a hand ruffling Storm’s fur. ‘Us,’ a gesture taking them all in.
‘Good answer,’ Camlin said.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
VERADIS
Veradis walked along the hill, the sinking sun sending a long shadow stretching far behind. He was checking the line of bodies that lay before him. Twelve of his men, slain in the battle. It was a good number by any standard, but still it upset him. They had been good men, brave and loyal. Three he recognized from having been with him since the beginning – from the battle in distant Tarbesh against giants who rode draigs. He did not doubt that somewhere on their bodies they would have a draig’s tooth. He stroked the one Nathair had presented to him, embedded now in his sword hilt. And something else gnawed at him. Their wounds. All of them had injuries on their lower legs – cuts and gashes on ankles and shins. Not killing wounds, obviously, but nevertheless, it bothered him. Any chain was only as strong as its weakest link, and if this weak link was getting his men killed, then he needed to do something about it. He looked down at his own feet, bound in leather sandals, the soles iron shod, cords of leather wrapped about his calves. An idea began to form in his mind.
Owain had not been found yet, but the battle was over. The defeated dead had been stripped of their precious things – weapons and armour, torcs and rings, any silver or gold – and been piled high and soon their bodies would be burned. The victorious dead were laid out separately, ready to have a cairn raised over them. Rhin had set up a tent at the top of the hill, and was sitting on a huge wooden chair draped with
furs, celebrating. Veradis turned and looked over the woodland to the west, rolling away in shades of green into the twilight as night crept upon them. He strained his ears, listening, and thought he heard something on the breeze – shouting? Perhaps they’ve found Owain. Woodland was not a place he would choose for battle – he had had enough of trees in Forn. Just stepping into these woods earlier had brought those memories flooding back. He hadn’t been in these woods long, though. Just long enough to find the girl, Cywen, and bring her back. And only just in time. Veradis had taken command of watching the girl, given her to Bos with a stern warning to watch her closely. Even though Conall had beaten her bloody she had been more worried about her horse, and how to get that arrow out of it. So the first thing he had done upon their return was to take her to the paddocks in search of Rhin’s horsemasters. He had bumped into Akar, who was overseeing the care given to the Jehar’s mounts, and to Veradis’ surprise Akar had said that he would help. Together they had tied the stallion to a series of posts, securing him as tightly as they could. Akar had called other Jehar to help, one of them attaching something to the soft flesh around the horse’s nostrils, tightening it until the stallion’s head had drooped, had seemed beyond calm, close to sleep even. Then a poultice had been placed around the wound – Akar said it would open the flesh a little and numb it – then with a sharp tug he had pulled the arrow out. The horse had jumped, eyes rolling, but it was over so quickly it settled almost immediately. Veradis had left them tending the wound, Cywen looking with interest over their shoulders despite her obvious mistrust of them all.
And now he was looking at his dead warriors, wondering what he could do to save lives in the next battle. And there will be many more, as we walk ever deeper into this God-War.
He went in search of Nathair, found him seated in a wide ring of warriors, hidden in shadow and watching Rhin as she rewarded her chieftains with plunder. A fire-pit had been dug; the carcass of a great boar was turning above it, fat crackling as it dripped into the flames. Veradis’ gaze was drawn to Rhin where she was sitting upon an ornate chair, thick with furs, clothed in black sable, a cloak of the same material edged with gold about her shoulders, her silver hair spilling across it. A gold torc wrapped her neck, and the firelight flickering across her face cast it one moment in shadow, the other in light. Her hand was extended, draped with gold and silver that she was offering to a warrior who stood before her. It was an older man, with streaks of white in his red hair and silver torcs curled around broad arms.
