by John Gwynne
We must be almost through, nearly into Cambren by now.
Braith was up ahead. Corban saw him send a man back along the path they had travelled. Corban had noticed him doing that throughout their journey, rotating the scouts to front and rear. Soon whoever had been on rearguard would join them. Braith broke up a biscuit and threw it to the hounds. They snapped at each other over the crumbs.
The snow fell more heavily now, a cold wind sending it swirling about them, thickening beneath Corban’s boots, muting sound. Corban was bustled to the centre of the group. Each breath and the pounding of his blood seemed to grow in volume, filling his head.
After a while Corban realized that the rearguard had not joined them. Braith must have noticed too, for he was looking over his shoulder. They were moving through pine trees now, the branches dipping with the weight of snow, an eerie world of white stillness. A tension seemed to have crept amongst them; Corban could see it in the set of shoulders and faces, the twitching glances all about. The way their pace had increased.
A shadow flitted across Corban’s path, merging with the shadows of tree and branch. He looked up, saw a black shape moving above the treetops, flitting in and out of view. He gave a cold smile.
One of the hounds up ahead stopped and turned, ears twitching. Heads peered back, searching through the trees, through the curtain of snow. Then Corban saw her, an off-white blur, bounding out from between the trees, mouth open, teeth bared.
Storm.
Behind her other forms, wolven in shape, more upright. Corban blinked. One was carrying a war-hammer.
Farrell and Coralen in their wolven pelts.
Storm hit the first of Braith’s men, the two of them ploughing through the snow, a great fountain of blood exploding as they rolled. They came to a rest, Storm standing, her jaws dripping red. The man did not move.
Braith yelled orders, reached for Corban and started dragging him on. The hounds ran back, throwing themselves at Storm. A few men hung back; the rest ran on.
He heard snarling and shouting behind, the yelp of a dog, then the clash of weapons – Farrell and Coralen.
‘No!’ Corban yelled, lurching to the side, his feet clumsy in the snow, his bound hands not helping his balance, then he was tumbling to the ground, his face hitting snow and pine needles.
Get up,’ Braith snarled, looming over him. He pulled Corban up, punched him in the gut, backhanded him across the face, then held a knife to Corban’s throat.
‘I’ll bleed you here an’ now if you try that again,’ Braith hissed. ‘Rhin’d like you alive, but dead’s better’n nothing at all. You understand me?’
Corban nodded, feeling the knife burn at his throat. A hot trickle of blood ran down his neck.
‘Get moving, then,’ Braith said. He looped some rope around Corban’s bonds, and pulled him on.
Corban staggered forwards, risking a glance back. Shapes moved amongst the trees, iron sparking as weapons clashed. A hound screamed in agony. One figure moved fast and smooth, more a swirling snow wraith than a man: Gar. Corban knew him by the way he fought, the way he killed. Arcs of blood glistened about him, scarlet pearls against the snow.
‘On.’ Braith’s boot crashed into his back and Corban was moving forward, half-running, staggering through the trees. An arrow whistled close by, hit one of Corban’s captors.
Dath.
The trees thinned and then they were on a bare slope, the snow ankle-deep, blanketing the ground. Corban caught a glimpse of grey walls and dark towers further below them, cloaked by the snow.
Dun Vaner.
Braith shouted orders and more men dropped back, drawing weapons as Corban and Braith ran past them. There was yelling and screaming behind, iron on iron.
I will not run to Rhin, to my own captivity, torture and death, Corban decided. He threw himself to the right, legs first, and kicked at Braith’s ankles. The man went down in a tumbling roll, his knife flying from his hands. Corban clumsily climbed back to his feet and ran after the still-rolling form of Braith, kicked him in the chest as he came to a stop. Braith grabbed at Corban’s boot and the two of them fell together.
Corban rose to his knees, punched two-handed at Braith, caught him on the shoulder, sent him rolling backwards, Corban’s momentum carrying him further. Braith grabbed Corban’s hair, yanked hard, his other hand reaching for Corban’s throat, squeezing. Corban felt his veins bulging, heard his blood pounding like hooves; black spots edged his vision. He bucked in Braith’s grip, brought a knee up into Braith’s gut. The grip around his throat disappeared and Corban rolled away, lurched to his feet, took staggering steps back up the slope, towards his friends.
They were all there, merged with the treeline, fighting Braith’s men. He saw Storm crouched, a man and hound circling her. Coralen was swirling gracefully around a warrior, slicing his hamstrings with her wolven claws. Then he saw his mam, spear in hand, blocking a flurry of sword blows. Gar stepped in and took the man’s head from his shoulders.
He forced his feet to move, labouring back up the slope, his lungs burning. The sound of pounding, like hooves, grew louder and louder. Someone yelled behind him – Braith – and he looked back. He realized it wasn’t his blood pounding in his head, it was riders, emerging through the snow, warriors with long spears, surging up behind him.
Braith pointed at him and he turned and ran, making a last effort to reach his friends and the trees.
Something heavy crashed into his back and he was sprawling forwards, a face full of snow.
He tried to rise, then hands were grabbing him, lifting him, and he was slung across a saddle; a blow crunched into his head making the world spin. He was moving, bouncing across the saddle, the shudder of hooves on snow passing through his body. Somewhere behind him a voice screamed, high and clear. His mam. She was calling his name. He tried to look up but something clumped him across the head again and all the strength flowed from his body. The sound of combat faded behind him, then he heard hooves clattering on stone and he was riding under an archway, huge gates closing behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
TUKUL
Tukul pulled his cloak tighter and scowled at the mountains. They were half veiled by heavy falling snow. It had started with dawn, and kept falling all day long.
I hate snow. Cold, rain, sun, I can cope with, but not snow. He looked up to the heavens. Forgive me, Elyon, it is part of your creation, but . . .
Telassar had been warm, always, even in winter. Even in Drassil when it had snowed they had been protected from the bulk of it by the dense treetop canopy. Some flakes would make it through the lattice of branches, but not enough. Not like this. He looked down and saw his horse’s hooves disappearing into the snow, past its fetlocks.
He rode beside Meical, his Jehar warriors riding in column behind.
They had travelled over a hundred leagues since Dun Carreg, had passed through Ardan and Narvon, then crossed rolling hills into Cambren. Here the going had been slower as Meical had taken them along less-frequented paths, through uninhabited lands, avoiding towns, villages and holds, though always heading for Domhain.
Once they had ridden into a band of warriors, scouts of Queen Rhin, riding back to Narvon. Meical had stayed their sword hands, suggesting that talking was attempted as a first resort in an effort to glean some information.
It had turned out to be simple enough. The warriors had taken one look at Tukul and his Jehar warriors and decided that they were part of a larger force that apparently rode with Rhin’s warband, in service to Nathair, King of Tenebral. Meical and Tukul had managed to keep their surprise hidden, and the warriors had ridden on.
‘The Jehar ride with Nathair,’ Tukul had hissed to Meical, once they were alone. ‘How can that be?’
‘I should have watched Nathair,’ Meical said, shaking his head. ‘And he was right under my nose, all the time I was with Aquilus. It makes sense; Nathair spent time in Tarbesh.’
‘It must be Sumur,’ Tukul said. ‘Su
mur must be leading the Jehar. He was always in opposition to me. I should have killed him when I had the chance.’
‘What’s done is done,’ Meical said. ‘At least we have had warning.’
They had also discovered that Rhin’s warband was set to invade Domhain and was somewhere ahead. They had continued onwards and eventually they had come to a point where they could see the giants’ road leading into the mountains: the pass through to Domhain. It was filled with warriors. The warriors choked the path through the mountains, a constant line of wains going along the road, taking supplies towards Domhain. There was no way through.
They had discussed their options and decided to move northwards, to find a safe spot and then let Meical search for Corban.
‘I have spent two score years laying plans, finding people that I trust, preparing for these days,’ Meical said. ‘And yet now I feel like a chicken chopped for the table.’ He gave Tukul a rueful smile.
‘Asroth has been making plans, too,’ Tukul said.
‘Aye, he has. I have been too cautious.’ He shook his head.
‘But we stand on the side of right, and the battle is far from done,’ Tukul said. I will not consider defeat. I have not waited all my life just to lose at the end.
‘Aye. And we are close now, my friend. I have found the Seren Disglair’s shadow in the Otherworld and tracked him through it. He is close. I will sleep now and travel the dream road. I will not lose him again.’
Tukul still found it strange how Meical could fall into a sleep so deep that he could not be woken, in which he almost appeared to be dead, and from which he would wake, looking as if he had fought with death himself, and say that the Seren Disglair was in Domhain, or in Dun Taras, or to the east, or north-east.
He is not of this world. What do I expect?
This time Meical had said that the Seren Disglair was still in Domhain, but travelling north, on the far side of the mountains.
That had been a ten-night gone. They had travelled north, searching for a path to cross into Domhain. Meical said he knew of one, but that they would have to tread carefully.
‘We are close to Dun Vaner,’ Meical said to him, leaning in his saddle. Tukul just grunted, trusting Meical’s judgement. How Meical could tell where they were in this whitewashed world he did not know, but briefly he caught a glimpse through the swirling snow of dark walls in the distance, high on a slope a cluster of towers and pinpricks of light. The day was turning to grey, the obscured sun retreating behind the mountains. They found a place to make camp, taking some shelter beneath a stand of birch and hawthorn in a cup-shaped dell.
‘I will search for him again tonight,’ Meical said as they sat huddled close together around a small fire. Soon Meical lay down and Tukul saw the familiar signs of his breathing slowing, becoming shallower.
Find him, Tukul thought. Find the Seren Disglair, and with him my son.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
CORBAN
Corban was hauled by two warriors through high-vaulted corridors, mostly empty, though in some alcoves fire-pits burned and warriors stood close to the flames to warm themselves. There was a feeling of emptiness here, and decay. Footsteps echoed behind him, following him. Braith.
Eventually he was dragged into a small chamber with weak light filtering in through slits in shuttered windows. One torch burned in a sconce, sending shadows dancing. Corban was slammed against a wall and his hands shackled to an iron ring above him, his ankles below.
Braith sat at a table, poured himself a cup of something dark and drank thirstily.
He leaned back, studying Corban. ‘What does Rhin want with you?’ he said at last.
‘Huh,’ Corban muttered. He still felt sick, and Braith’s words seemed as if they were reaching him through water, or the snowstorm that had raged outside. Distant and muted.
Braith repeated his question.
I don’t know, thought Corban. He looked up to the shuttered window opposite, thinking of his mam and friends out on the hillside. Were they still fighting? Had they escaped? Stray flakes of snow drifted through the gap in the shutters and floated lazily down.
Someone came in, a woman, carrying a platter full of food – bread, fruits, cheese, cold meats. Corban heard his stomach growl as he watched Braith tear into it.
‘Here,’ Braith said, walking over and holding out a chunk of bread. ‘I should let you starve, after what your wolven and friends did to my men back there, but I think Rhin’s going to want to talk with you; so passing out is to be avoided.’
Corban chewed a mouthful. The bread was still warm. It tasted delicious. Braith gave him a sip of his drink – watered ale.
‘My thanks,’ Corban said when he had swallowed and was sure that the food and drink was not going to come straight back up.
Braith sat down and finished his food.
‘Did they get away?’ Corban asked, his voice a croak.
‘I don’t know,’ Braith said. ‘Only two of my men still live, and one of those was the man I sent ahead to tell Rhin we were close. The riders wouldn’t have followed your friends if they ran, not into those trees and possible ambush.’ He rubbed his eyes.
A silence fell on the room.
A muffled sound came from the far wall. Corban saw the outline of a door appear, and what he thought was undressed stone swung open. Two figures emerged from the darkness. Corban recognized both of them.
Rhin, Queen of Cambren. Of Narvon and Ardan, too, now. She was old, appeared much older than the last time he had seen her, in Badun at the Midwinter gathering, when Tull had fought her champion, Morcant.
Morcant was no longer her champion, though; he knew that and he saw Conall walk into the room behind her.
The warrior didn’t say anything, but their eyes locked for a long moment. Conall was the first to look away. Corban wasn’t sure what he saw there: pride, definitely, but there was more, a flicker in his glance, an unwillingness to hold Corban’s gaze. Was that shame? Corban remembered when Conall had first come to Dun Carreg, riding up the giantsway with Halion. He had seemed happy then by comparison, carefree.
‘Well done, Braith,’ Rhin said. The woodsman dropped to one knee before her and kissed her hand.
‘You’ve done well,’ she said, motioning for him to stand. ‘Even if half my riders are now lying dead on the slopes of Vaner.’
‘Are they caught?’ Braith asked. ‘His companions?’
‘No. I have riders out searching, but I don’t have enough men here to do the job properly. Most of them are busy conquering Domhain.’
‘I can take a party out. I know the land well hereabouts.’
‘Perhaps.’ Rhin nodded. ‘If Edana is out there it would be a shame to let her get away.’
She thinks I travelled with Edana.
‘So, you are Corban,’ Rhin said, turning to him. It was not a question. ‘I do remember you from Badun. At least, I remember seeing the boy who had tamed a wolven.’
She’s not tame, Corban thought.
‘I should have given you more attention then but I was preoccupied. I hear she’s grown, your wolven, and is happily tearing people apart in my woodlands.’
She’s not dead, then. Corban felt a flutter of relief in his belly. He opened his mouth and asked the question that had been hovering there.
‘Where’s Cywen?’
‘Cywen?’ Rhin said.
Corban felt his spirits sink. Rhin didn’t know who he meant.
Conall whispered something in her ear.
‘Oh, your sister. She’s well on her way to Murias. You’ll not find her here,’ Rhin said. ‘Is that what you thought? Were you coming here to get her, when Braith found you wandering around my mountains? How terribly noble of you.’ She stepped closer to him, ran a pointed fingernail along his jaw line, down his neck, across his chest. He pulled away, tried to kick out but the iron collars about his ankles held him.
Murias.
‘Admirable qualities,’ she murmured, close enough that he cou
ld smell her breath, a hint of honey on it. Mead?
‘What do you want with me?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Rhin said. ‘Yet. There are certain parties that are extremely interested in you, though, and that has piqued my interest. Tell me of yourself, Corban of Dun Carreg. Of your kin, your friends. I would know everything about you.’
Corban woke to a throbbing pain in his wrists.
Where am I?
His eyes fluttered open and he saw a pot sitting over a small fire, could hear water bubbling within it.
Rhin.
Pains started registering, first his wrists, where the shackles had borne his slumped weight, then his ribs and kidneys, where Conall had beaten him.
‘You should have told her what you know,’ Braith advised. ‘She’ll get what she wants out of you anyway, so you might as well save yourself some pain.’
‘Where is she?’ Corban asked. He took his weight on his legs, removing the pressure from his wrists. He felt blood trickling down his forearms.
‘Don’t worry, she’ll be back soon enough.’
A noise seeped into his consciousness, a creaking, tapping sound. He looked up at the shuttered window, high on the opposite wall. Light still streamed through, the occasional snowflake. Then a shadow crossed the gap between the shutters, something beyond blocking the light. He heard the tapping again, followed by a squawk.
Craf?
Just then the secret door opened and Rhin walked back in, shadowed by Conall. She marched to the pot and threw something in. A herbal smell wafted out, and an acrid steam rose.
‘Hold the pot close to him,’ she ordered Conall and Braith. They carried it by an iron spit and held it close. He tried to kick at it but his shackles stopped him. The steam floated about his face, curling into his mouth, his nose, stinging his eyes. He clamped his mouth shut and held his breath.
‘He’s stubborn,’ Rhin said, a smile twitching her lips.
Corban’s lungs started to burn, the beating of his heart growing louder in his head. Eventually he took a breath, throwing his head around, trying to disperse the steam. It didn’t work. He had a bitter taste at the back of his throat, closely followed by a sense of warmth radiating from his chest, seeping through his body. He felt more relaxed than he could remember.
