by John Gwynne
They made camp beside a fast-flowing stream, the water clear and icy cold, seventy-one people strong, plus Storm and Craf. They had passed through the mountains back into Domhain, and then Coralen had led them north, their pace fast and ground-eating. Over a moon had passed since they had left Dun Vaner, the weather changing, snow turning to sleet turning to rain. It was still cold here in the north, but each day there was a growing hint of spring in the air. Corban could smell it. New life, rebirth.
It will be my nameday soon. It’s been almost a year since we sailed away from Dun Carreg.
Coralen had said that they would soon be crossing the northern border of Domhain into Benoth. From there it would be less than a ten-night until they reached Murias.
And Cywen.
He had had a lot of time to think. The reality of his time in the Otherworld had not faded. And even if it had, he had a physical reminder riding close to him every day.
Meical.
The man had seemed cold and aloof at first, unapproachable, but as the days of the journey had passed, conversation had begun to flow between them. It was mostly Corban asking questions and Meical answering. Corban had for the most part asked about Nathair and the political circumstances of the Banished Lands, of kings and queens, of where they would stand in the scheme of things. Meical seemed to know everyone, or if not know them, at least know of them. For the most part Corban steered away from anything that navigated close to what he thought of as spiritual – the Otherworld, Asroth, Elyon, the Ben-Elim and Kadoshim – even though he had a thousand questions bubbling away in his mind. But once he started asking them, he knew he would have to acknowledge the truth of it. It was one thing to acknowledge it to himself, or to his mam. It was another thing entirely to admit it to this band of fanatics who would willingly cut someone’s head from their body at his mere suggestion. Besides, once he admitted it to Meical and the Jehar, the consequences of that were staggering. Where to go from there?
No, he could not walk down that path yet. It scared him, like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down, waves of giddiness sweeping up, consuming him. He had decided to focus on the task at hand. To find Cywen and take her from Nathair. That was task enough. If they lived through that, then there would be plenty of time to consider the bigger questions.
Just the thought of seeing Cywen again sent a swell of emotion coursing through him – hope, worry, fear. Elyon in heaven, let us save her. He smiled to himself as he realized what he was doing. Strange how we pray in these times. Even to an absent god. A shred of hope is better than no hope at all, I suppose.
Corban saw Coralen a little way off, standing on a ridge of rock, looking at the horizon.
‘What are you looking at?’ Corban said as he drew near.
‘Benoth,’ Coralen said. She pointed. ‘Between those peaks is a wide vale – and on its far side is Benoth. Murias will not be much further, if we do not run into a band of the Benothi patrolling their borders.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘Perhaps.’ Coralen shrugged. ‘You never know with the Benothi. They can stay locked in their halls for years, and then they will raid a dozen times over a few moons.’
She was wearing her wolven pelt. Corban had taken to wearing his too; it was warmer than his cloak. They both stood gazing at the gap between the mountains, the sky a deep blue. Stars winked into life.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ Corban said into the silence.
An in-drawn breath. ‘For what?’
‘For everything. For guiding us. For risking your life at Dun Vaner. For coming to save me. For leading us north. For what you’re about to do, taking us to Murias. We wouldn’t be here, if not for you.’ There was more that he wanted to say, more that he’d thought about, every day, but he couldn’t find the words.
‘It must have been hard for you, seeing Conall like that,’ he eventually managed.
‘It was,’ she said. The silence lengthened and he thought she would say no more about it. Then she spoke. ‘Con was always my favourite. I shouldn’t say that. Halion was always kind, thoughtful, always looked out for me; but Con was so much fun. He was always exciting to be around. Maybe not good, but exciting . . .’
Corban could understand that. Conall had the ability to make you hate him and love him, sometimes at the same time. ‘I thought you would have gone south, when Conall fled with Rhin. They probably went to Domhain. To join her warband.’
‘They probably did,’ Coralen breathed.
‘I thought that’s where you’d want to be,’ he said.
She turned to look at him then, her gaze straight and firm. She had green eyes.
He thought she was about to say something, then he heard footsteps behind him, and voices.
Dath and Farrell joined them.
‘Those Jehar, I don’t like them,’ Dath said.
‘They saved our lives,’ Corban said.
‘I like them,’ Coralen said.
‘Didn’t think you’d like meeting women tougher than you,’ Dath said.
‘I admire them,’ Coralen replied.
‘Well, so do I, but they still scare me, and . . .’
‘Everything scares you,’ said Farrell.
‘And Gar’s one of them,’ Corban pointed out.
‘Aye, but he’s one of us, as well.’
‘And he doesn’t look at you as if you’re made of gold, like the rest of them do,’ Farrell said to Corban.
He couldn’t deny that, and the fact of it made him uncomfortable, every day.
‘No, they don’t,’ he said weakly.
‘You know they do,’ Dath said, smiling now. ‘They think you’re this Seven Disgraces.’
‘Seren Disglair,’ Corban corrected automatically.
‘Maybe you are made of gold. Is there any gold under all that fur?’ Dath said, pulling at Corban’s wolven pelt.
‘Get off.’ He slapped at Dath’s hand.
The next thing he knew, Farrell was grabbing him, Dath trying to lift his shirt. The three of them fell wrestling to the ground.
‘Idiots,’ Coralen snorted and Corban glimpsed her heels walking away.
Corban woke before dawn, Gar prodding him awake. He didn’t protest, was used to it by now. Besides, these days he was far from alone in training. All of the Jehar were up, some already sparring.
The first morning after the rescue at Dun Vaner had been strange. Corban had felt like a stage performer, every single one of the Jehar gathering to watch him train with Gar. He had even felt tension radiating from Gar.
The faces of the Jehar had been unreadable, but after an unsteady start Corban had forgotten they were there, losing himself in the sword dance. Afterwards Tukul had patted Gar on the shoulder and whispered a few words in his son’s ear. Whatever those words were they made Gar stand straighter, his face glowing with pride.
It was still strange, seeing Gar with his people. In many ways he was just like them – the composure, the cold face, even the way he walked, all grace and coiled strength. But after travelling with them a while Corban began to see differences. There was an openness about Gar, a softening, like a sheathed sword. And Gar smiled more. Corban thought he’d never say that about the stablemaster. The only Jehar who smiled as much or more than Gar was Tukul. Corban liked him – a fiery man, he guessed, despite the veneer of control. A man of great warmth and great anger. He reminded him of his own da, Thannon, somehow. And Tukul and Gar clearly adored each other. Corban had felt a surge of jealousy, seeing them laughing and talking together. He wished he still had his da to talk to.
The Jehar were not the only ones up. Brina was doing something with a pot over the fire. Closer by he saw his mam and Coralen going through some moves with one of the Jehar – a woman named Enkara. She was blocking his mam’s and Coralen’s strikes, turning each block into a smooth attack, all in slow motion.
Then Corban had no more time to watch; Gar was prodding him, stepping into stooping falcon, ready to begin.
They set off soon aft
er the sun had risen, a column riding steadily towards the gap in the mountains. Corban rode beside his mam.
‘Cywen’s through there, Mam,’ he said.
‘We’ve come so far, eh?’
‘That we have.’
‘And we are only here because of you.’
‘That’s not true, Mam. You would have set off straight after Cywen the moment you found out she was still alive.’
‘Me? Yes, probably. But no one else. And I don’t think I would have made it this far without them, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t have got very far, either. Without all of you I’d still be in a cell in Dun Vaner.’ Or lying in a grave, my heart cut from my body.
She smiled at him then. ‘You’re growing into a good man, Ban, with a good head on your shoulders. A man who I’m willing to trust, son or not. I’d follow you, put my faith in you, and I’m not alone. I just have to look at everyone – they love you, Corban, would follow you anywhere.’
‘I think your judgement’s biased, Mam. You are my mam, after all.’
‘Well, there is that,’ she said, and laughed. The sound of it made him smile; it was warm and genuine.
‘But still . . .’ Her expression changed then, moving from playful to clouded faster than a storm sweeping in from the sea. ‘I wish your da was here to see you. He’d be so proud of you, Ban. I think his heart would just about melt.’
He felt a pressure in his chest, the flush of tears rising to his eyes. Strange how a memory can do that to you, he thought, catch you unawares, like one of Gar’s blows.
‘I wish he was here, too,’ Corban said, emotion catching his voice. He smiled at his mam and she smiled back. ‘At least we’ll have Cywen back soon.’ Or die in the trying.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
MAQUIN
Maquin spent a ten-night after the conflict in the arena languishing in the pit-fighters’ quarters, a stone block of a building close to the stables in Jerolin. He and the other pit-fighters – five of them remaining of the ten who had survived that day on the Island of Nerin – had been left alone. Usually Herak or some of his other more trusted guards would see them through a daily training session, but not since Orgull’s shocking turn. Food and drink came at regular intervals, but that was all.
Maquin felt as if he was going mad, the sheer boredom gnawing at him. He had no idea if Orgull was still alive, though that was unlikely. It was clear to Maquin that Deinon had stayed Lykos’ hand that day in the arena, saving Orgull’s life.
Not out of kindness, though. Not a chance of that. Probably so they could hang Orgull up somewhere and make him scream at their leisure.
He was sitting on a stone bench when he heard the keys rattling in the main door. Light shafted in as the door opened, Herak’s unmistakable shape standing outlined in the entrance.
‘On your feet, fighters,’ he called.
They gathered quickly – Maquin, Javed and the few others who had survived this far. They all had the same look of bottled energy mixed with despair.
A dangerous combination.
‘Follow,’ Herak ordered and turned on his heel.
Maquin blinked as he stepped into the daylight, even though it was weak, filtered through slate-grey clouds overhead. He noticed guards closing behind them as they all left their prison. Emad, the tall guard from Pelset, was one of them.
Herak led them through wide streets. Maquin saw Vin Thalun warriors on every corner, the occasional man in the black and silver of Tenebral. Then they were walking into the keep, through a feast-hall, up a winding staircase. At the top Herak nodded to guardsmen and a door was opened; all of them were ushered into a large chamber. Maquin pulled up short.
Orgull was hanging from shackles on the wall. He was naked apart from a stained loincloth, his body a tapestry of pain. One side of his face was fire scarred, blistered and weeping, his eye a ruin of twisted skin and flesh. His torso and legs were criss-crossed with cuts and weals, a combination of whip and blade. Someone had taken their time on him. Mercifully he was unconscious, his head hanging limp, chest rhythmically rising and falling.
Maquin looked away, feeling his stomach buck. Then he looked back, ashamed of himself. This was his sword-brother, the closest thing to a friend that he had left. As if feeling his eyes, Orgull stirred. A groan, then a shifting of his weight, taking the strain on his wrists bound above his head, a ripple in his thighs, a tension in his neck.
Sleep longer, brother.
‘Welcome,’ a voice said, drawing his attention.
It was Lykos, leaning casually against a desk. Five chests were placed on the ground before him. Deinon hovered in the shadows.
‘My apologies for neglecting you all, the past ten-night,’ Lykos said. ‘There have been distractions.’
‘What distractions?’ Javed asked.
One day your questions are going to get you a knife in the belly, Maquin thought.
‘That’s none of your concern,’ Lykos said. ‘They’re dealt with now, anyway. What does concern you is what I have to say.’ He paused, one hand reaching inside the recesses of his cloak. Maquin saw the outline of his hand close about something. Lykos didn’t seem to be aware that he was doing anything; something about the whole gesture seemed habitual.
‘You’ve done well,’ Lykos continued. ‘More than well, living this long, surviving the pits. You’re close to earning your freedom, all of you. See these chests.’ Lykos walked to each one, kicking them open. They were stuffed to brimming with gold coins. ‘Each one is what we’ve earned from you. You’ve made us rich.’
He walked back to the desk and poured himself a cup of wine, taking a long drink.
Freedom. The word hit Maquin like a blow, making his dizzy. Jael’s face floated into his mind, sneering at him, as always.
‘One more fight you all have. Win and you’ve earned your freedom. Win and I’ll give you a pouch of gold each from these chests. And I’ll make you an offer to think on, too. I want you to join me – join my crew. Sail with me. Swear a blood-oath to me. What you see in these chests is nothing to what’s in my future. Those who stay close to me are going to be rich men, and I don’t mean just gold: land, men, women, respect.’
‘One more fight,’ Maquin said.
‘Aye, that’s right. So let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh?’
‘When?’ asked Javed.
‘A ten-night, maybe a little longer. You’ll go back to your training from the morrow.’
‘Who are we fighting?’ Maquin asked.
‘Whoever I put in front of you,’ Lykos said. ‘Just remember: obey me and you may end up with this.’ He nudged one of the open chests with a toe. ‘Cross me and you’ll likely end up like him.’ He pointed at Orgull. ‘That’s all I have to say.’
Herak opened the door and waved them out. Maquin looked back as he reached the door. Orgull was looking at him with his one good eye. His lips moved, only a sigh coming out.
‘Get on,’ Herak ordered, pushing Maquin into the corridor. The door slammed shut.
Maquin lay back on his cot, hands laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he saw Orgull’s ruined face. Saw his lips moving, a silent plea. He hadn’t heard the words, but he was sure what Orgull had mouthed to him across the room.
Kill me.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE
VERADIS
Veradis stood beside Rhin and Conall. Behind them stood the combined warbands of Cambren and Tenebral, waiting. Amongst them were also two dozen wains, on open display and filled to overflowing with bread.
Smoke billowed from a dozen points within the walls of Dun Taras. Throughout the night rioting had been heard, even the clash of arms close to the gate, so a watch had been set, warriors put on alert to storm the gates at the first hint of them opening.
‘It will not be long,’ Rhin said to Veradis. ‘Conall was the nudge that they needed.’
I think she’s right. Shrewd and sharp; a good all
y, a fearful enemy.
The sounds grew as the day lengthened, the roar of rioting drifting closer, then ebbing away. Eventually, around highsun, the noise reached a crescendo, the screams of pitched battle drifting over the walls. Then a shiver ran through the gates and they swung open.
A roar went up from the warriors behind Veradis.
‘Slowly,’ Rhin called. ‘We are their deliverers, not their conquerors.’
Riders pulled in close about Rhin and then she moved off, entering through Dun Taras’ gates to shouting and cheering. The wains followed in a line behind; Conall and a handful of other warriors leaned to grab loaves of bread and throw them into the crowd.
Veradis marched behind the wains, three hundred of his men massed behind him. All of them were alert, tense. Behind them came more of Rhin’s warband, spreading into the crowds, searching the side streets, up stairwells and onto the walls. The wains stopped at points along the way, quickly emptying to pushing and shoving crowds, then reversed slowly out of the fortress to be refilled. The crowds thinned about Rhin and Veradis as they pushed deeper into Dun Taras, aiming for the keep.
We are being greeted with open arms right now, but I don’t think all feel the same way in this fortress.
As if Veradis’ thoughts willed them out of the shadows, a band of warriors appeared from a side street and hurled themselves at Rhin’s shieldmen. There was a brief clash, a few of Rhin’s men were dragged from saddles, but the attackers were quickly repulsed. Veradis and his men drew closer together, not yet a shield wall, but ready.
Then they were at the keep.
There was a stillness, an emptiness that set Veradis’ skin prickling. That moment when the wind dies, just before a storm breaks.
‘Be ready,’ he said to Bos.
Rhin stopped in the courtyard, her men fanning out before her. The keep doors were shut, but when warriors pushed on them they swung open freely. A score of Rhin’s men entered, more, then like a wave. Then there was a concussive bang, air blasting from the open doors, followed by an explosion of heat and flames. A handful of men staggered out, human torches, the stench of seared flesh filling the courtyard. Veradis felt his stomach lurch.
