by John Gwynne
‘Well done,’ Tukul said, and patted Gar on the shoulder. My son.
Gar all but glowed at his father’s praise.
‘That’s enough for an old man,’ Tukul said, unbinding the cloth and lambswool from his blade, used both to protect it during sparring and to mute the noise. He smiled to himself.
I am happy, he realized. The journey northwards had been one of quiet camaraderie, spent in the company of his son, his sword-kin about him, and the Seren Disglair riding at their head. I am reunited with my son. My beloved son, who has surpassed all of the hopes and dreams I have nurtured about him for so many years. He is capable, measured, strong, compassionate. Different from us other Jehar who have been hidden away from the world. More open, a mixture of proud and humble.
And I am in the company of the Seren Disglair, finally doing, after all these years of waiting. Setting about the serious business of defeating the Black Sun. He smiled at the clouds above him. It is good to be alive.
They were in a dip in the land, a meagre shelter from the wind that seemed to blow permanently across this barren moorland. All about them sparring partners separated, moving into the tasks of breaking camp. Gar’s eyes flickered between two people, Tukul following his son’s gaze.
Corban and Gwenith. And you love them both. That was easy to understand, having lived seventeen years around them, Corban the centre of his world. But Gwenith . . . Tukul frowned at that. The Seren Disglair’s mother. Tukul had waited for the Seren Disglair all his life; in his mind he was more than human, and so his mother was special too. But to see them, human, flesh and blood. It felt strange. And Gar is somewhere between elder brother and father to Corban. And I have seen how his eyes follow Gwenith . . . He shrugged, a fatalism that he had long ago embraced. It is as it is.
Brina the old healer was hovering close as the sparring ended, a book cradled in one arm. She beckoned to Corban and the young man followed her. What does she want with him? His inquisitive nature won out and he followed them, checking on his horse which was paddocked nearby.
He went through the ritual of inspecting hooves, checking for stones, testing the buckles and tightness of the harness. All was ready; they were just waiting for Coralen to return. She’d left with the first sight of the sun, scouting ahead as she had each day since they’d passed into Benoth, the giant realm. She had taken the wolven with her, and Tukul had sent Enkara as an added surety.
He heard Brina and Corban talking, then Corban speak words in the first-tongue. There was a long pause, Corban standing perfectly still, braced, then his shoulders slumped.
Meical appeared and sat upon a boulder close to Corban.
‘You are learning the earth power,’ Meical said.
‘Aye. Brina has been teaching me.’
‘And how does it go?’ Meical asked.
Corban shrugged. ‘I just tried to summon mist. Nothing happened.’
‘With the earth power there is no trying, only doing. Faith is the key.’
‘Aye, well, I’m sure that’s easy for you to say, seeing as you’ve a personal acquaintance with the All-Father. Me, it’s proving to be a bit more difficult.’
Meical laughed, something that Tukul rarely heard. ‘That’s fair enough, I suppose.’
‘I’ve been thinking, about this Seren Disglair business,’ Corban said, turning to regard Meical.
‘Aye. Go on.’
This sounds like progress.
Tukul had spent much of his time observing Corban since their meeting at Dun Vaner. There was much to like, a respectful, inquisitive lad beneath the solemn layers that experience and tragedy had accumulated. And strength, not just physical. Back at Dun Vaner he had stood up to Meical, refused to go to Drassil in favour of seeking his sister. As much as that was troublesome, not sticking to the plan, Tukul liked Corban for it. It took courage to stand up to one of the Ben-Elim. One thing that Tukul had noticed, though, was that when the questions came from Corban, which they frequently did once he’d started talking, he never asked about who he was, or about Elyon and Asroth. All of his questions were to do with kings and queens, politics, the strategies of war. All good questions, to my mind. But there was always an underlying avoidance of all things spiritual. This was the first time Tukul had heard him broach the subject.
‘Last time, when Asroth crossed the boundaries between the Otherworld and here, Elyon intervened. He stopped Asroth. Yes?’ Corban asked.
‘Aye. The Scourging. Much was destroyed.’
‘Yes, but Asroth was defeated. Will Elyon not just do that again? It seems to me the obvious thing to do, and would avoid all the war and slaughter that is certainly coming.’
‘That would be the best and surest way to defeat Asroth,’ Meical said, his expression becoming sad. ‘But Elyon is absent. Gone. After the Scourging his grief was immense, indescribable. He took himself into mourning, to a place of solitude that we cannot find. So he is not here to intervene. That is why he is sometimes called the absent god. It has been my prayer for uncounted years that he return to us.’
‘Oh.’ Corban became silent, clearly pondering that information. ‘I have heard you call me the Seren Disglair, but what does that mean. What am I supposed to do?’
‘There was a prophecy written down by Halvor, a giant from the time soon after the Scourging, when the world was broken and battered, healing. The prophecy speaks of Asroth and his Kadoshim returning, of the Seven Treasures coming to light again and of two champions, avatars of Elyon and Asroth. The Bright Star and the Black Sun. The Banished Lands will be divided between these two, so the prophecy says, and they shall go to war.’ Meical shrugged. ‘It should not be so hard to believe, any more. War is already spreading through the land.’
‘That it is,’ Corban said quietly.
He does not look happy about that thought.
Hooves drummed, Coralen and Enkara riding over a crest in the surrounding moorland, Storm loping silently beside them. They reined in hard before Corban and Meical.
‘Someone is out there,’ Coralen said, gesturing behind her.
‘Who?’ Meical asked.
‘I don’t know, but Storm did not like the smell of them. There is woodland further along the road to Murias. They were taking care not to be seen.’
‘Did they see you?’ Tukul asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ Coralen said. ‘Storm scented them first, so we dismounted and crept closer.’
‘We took great care,’ Enkara added.
‘How many?’ Corban asked.
‘I saw at least a dozen moving in the trees, but there could be more.’ She shrugged.
‘Can we go around them?’
‘We could, but it would take us leagues out of our way, and they would most likely still see us; there is little shelter on the surrounding moorland.’
‘That would only matter if they are waiting for us,’ Corban said. ‘Brina, would Craf take a closer look for us?’
‘He will if he wants any supper,’ Brina said.
Tukul approached the trees, a small wooded dip in the land. He tightened the hood of his cloak, a bearskin taken from Dun Vaner, masking his face. His sword and axe were strapped on either side of his saddle, within easy reach. Overhead the sky was grey, clouds low and heavy.
Highsun, already.
Craf had returned with the information that a score of men and at least one giant were hidden in these woods, off the road, no fires.
He rode amongst the first trees; the light dimmed instantly, shadows encroaching all around. It is nothing compared to Forn. He stared straight ahead; half a dozen of his sword-kin were about him, as well as Dath and Farrell.
They rode in silence for a while, only the sound of hooves echoing on the road, the creak and sigh of branches around them. Then Tukul thought he saw movement, just a shifting of shadows. He resisted the urge to touch his sword hilt.
Undergrowth crackled as the woods burst to life, figures leaping out at them, ten, fifteen, more. In a blur, Tukul had drawn hi
s sword and thrown his axe, heard the satisfying crunch of it cleaving flesh and bone. He smiled, then froze as he saw his attackers clearly.
They were Jehar.
He stood tall in his saddle, shrugging his cloak away, revealing his coat of mail and dark robes.
‘Hold,’ he bellowed, the power of his voice freezing everyone.
A score of the Jehar stood about him, swords raised in various stages of attack. They stared at him and his companions as if they were ghosts.
They are Sumur’s; there is no other explanation. I do not want to slay these, my sword-kin.
‘Brothers, sisters, you have been deceived,’ he cried out. ‘Put down your swords; there should be no bloodshed between us.’
For a moment indecision hung in the air, everyone still, staring at him. Then another figure burst from the shadows, this one huge and broad, muscled like a bull.
A giant.
He charged straight for Dath and Farrell, a black-bladed axe raised high.
Dath drew and shot an arrow, the shaft skittering off the giant’s coat of mail, then the giant was on them, roaring as it swung its axe.
Dath yanked on his reins; his horse danced away and Farrell kicked his own mount on, barging into the giant, knocking him to one knee. He stood quickly, swinging his axe overhead at Farrell. One of Tukul’s Jehar spurred in between them, raising his sword to deflect the axe. The weapons met in an explosion of sparks, the axe-blade shearing through the Jehar’s sword, carrying on to slice into the warrior’s head, carving through into his chest, blood and gore spraying.
The act was like a spark being lit. The other Jehar who had frozen at Tukul’s words sprang to life, leaping forward with a roar. Tukul parried a sword swing and countered, saw his attacker stagger. Then other figures were bursting from both sides of the trees, Storm leading the charge, leaping upon a Jehar warrior, blood spraying as they tumbled across the ground. Meical appeared, Corban and Coralen in their wolven cloaks and claws, Gar close by, more of Tukul’s Jehar. The battle was short and furious, the surrounded Jehar fighting with the skill and ferocity he would expect, but they had no chance, outnumbered and surprised.
The giant burst for freedom, smashing through the chaos of fighting bodies with two of his Jehar guarding his escape, holding off any pursuers for a handful of moments. By the time they were dead the giant was gone.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR
FIDELE
Fidele sat at her desk with a quill hovering in her hand. Her other hand held a sheaf of parchment flat. She was sweating.
Just write it. Lykos controls me by some spell. The words my mouth speaks cannot be trusted. Kill Lykos.
That is what she wanted to write, what she was willing with all of her mind and strength for her hand to write, but it refused, as if it were a separate, sentient entity. It hovered over the parchment, a tremor of will setting droplets of ink splattering across the parchment. With a strangled yell she flung the quill away and collapsed on the desk, breathing hard.
Lykos. She could feel him, even now. A caress in her mind, a presence, like a watcher in the shadows, a maggot crawling across her skin. It made her feel sick. For a moment she could feel his hands on her, smell his sour breath, a wave of revulsion spasming through her body.
She sat up. Parchments were spread across her desk, the one before her empty, others full of her flowing writing. Most of them were orders pertaining to the movement of troops, her eagle-guard, her protectors, and she was ordering them to details in the far corners of Tenebral. Scattering any of those loyal to her away from her reach. Another wave of frustration welled up inside her.
She stood and walked to a window, gazing out over the lake and plain. Winter was on the retreat, a hint of spring coming. Her eyes were drawn to the arena that sat between Jerolin and the lake town, a malignant growth in her once-perfect view, a symbol of what was happening to Tenebral.
And how the people of Tenebral had taken to it – to pit-fighting, a fight to the death as entertainment. She would never have believed that they would scream so loudly for the sight of blood, like a pack of frenzied hounds.
Have I been so naive? Does such a darkness beat in every heart?
With a startling clarity she remembered the contest she had witnessed, the man with the axe against a warrior wielding two swords, behind them Peritus and Armatus chained to a post. Her heart had leaped as she’d seen her two old friends set free, other warriors rushing into the ring, pulling them to safety. Then the Vin Thalun had fallen upon them, the ensuing chaos ending in Armatus having his head hacked from his body by Lykos.
Peritus, at least, had escaped. Lykos had been in a rage for days after, sending warriors to scour the countryside, but Peritus had disappeared. Her guess was that he had gone home, to his village in the northern mountains. The Vin Thalun would never find him there.
Their ships studded the lake, more arriving almost every day. She didn’t know how many Vin Thalun sailed the Tethys Sea, but surely every last one of them had swarmed to Jerolin. Lykos and his kind were like one of those parasites that attached themselves to a host, laying eggs in its body and eating it from the inside out.
That was how she felt, consumed from the inside out, her whole world spiralling into an ocean of permanent despair. As she looked out of the window the urge to just step out took hold of her, to step into nothing, to just fall and fall and fall. But even that was beyond her, she knew. She’d already tried to take her life. Anything to be free of the hold on her, but Lykos’ will was a compulsion in her mind, a cage that she could not escape.
Lykos strolled in, the sight of him making a fist of fear clench in her gut. He looked her up and down as he approached, his eyes lingering.
‘I have some good news for you,’ he said, running a finger down her cheek. ‘Your time of mourning Aquilus is passed.’
I will never stop mourning Aquilus.
‘Surprisingly, at this stage in your life, you have found love again. You thank Elyon for this rare blessing.’
Dear All-Father, no, let this be a dream, a nightmare. Let me wake from it.
‘We will be wed in a ten-night. There will be much celebrating in Tenebral at your newfound happiness. Games will honour the occasion. The fighting pit will run red.’ He grinned. ‘You may smile.’
She felt her muscles twitch, her lips moving involuntarily. She fought it, of course.
‘Not your most beautiful look,’ Lykos commented, frowning at the expression on her face.
Nathair – where are you? Please come home and end this nightmare. Not for the first time she marvelled at Lykos’ sheer audacity – that he would do the things he was doing in light of Nathair’s return.
‘What’s going on behind those eyes?’ Lykos said. ‘Speak freely.’
‘Nathair,’ she said. ‘How can you do these things, knowing that he will return one day?’
Lykos laughed. ‘Kingship changes people, my lady. Responsibility, pressure, it does things to a man. And Nathair will soon have far more on his mind than who his mother shares a bed with. I don’t think you’ll recognize your son when he returns.’
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE
CYWEN
Cywen stamped her feet and blew on her hands. It was cold and damp, her breath fogging before her. A heavy mist cloaked the ground. She crouched and scratched Buddai behind an ear; the hound leaned against her, nearly pushing her over.
‘Mount up,’ Calidus said as he rode out of the mist.
She was close to the head of the column, the smell of Nathair’s draig strong in the air.
It had been half a ten-night since Alcyon had left the column, staying in the woods they had passed through. Calidus had been poor company since then, refusing to answer a single question she put to him. That didn’t stop her trying, though.
‘Alcyon is waiting for my brother, isn’t he?’ she asked the silver-haired man, not for the first time.
He turned his yellow eyes upon her, the first reaction she had a
chieved. ‘Today is a momentous day,’ he said quietly, though she felt scared, suddenly, a threat in his voice. ‘You are a curiosity to me now, nothing more. I do not need you. If you distract me again I will put a knife through your eye, and enjoy watching you die.’ He held her gaze. ‘Do we understand one another?’
‘I . . .’ She nodded, all her anger and defiance draining away.
A shout went up from the back of the column. Calidus pulled on his horse’s reins, turning to look back. A figure loomed out of the mist, tall and wide.
Alcyon.
He approached Calidus with his head bowed. As he drew closer Cywen saw that he looked exhausted, his usual pallor deathly white now, cuts upon his arms, matted blood in his hair. He came and stood before Calidus, dropped to his knees.
‘I have failed you,’ the giant grated. ‘My life is forfeit.’
‘It’s forfeit when I have no more use for you,’ Calidus snapped. ‘Get up and follow me.’
Calidus ordered a warrior close by to watch Cywen, and then he rode a distance away with Alcyon in tow. Cywen strained to hear them, but only caught a few disjointed words as they returned to her. ‘Half a day behind, maybe more,’ was all she heard Alcyon say.
‘We’d better get this done, then,’ Calidus said and cantered to the head of the column.
‘I told you,’ Cywen said to Alcyon.
‘What?’ the giant growled.
‘That Corban would be the one doing the killing.’
Alcyon glowered at her. ‘Mount up,’ he ordered.
As she climbed onto Shield’s back the giant reached out, his long arms encompassing her. Before she realized what he was doing she had a rope knotted about her waist, the other end tied to Alcyon’s belt.
‘What’s that for?’ she said.
‘There’ll be fighting today, and I won’t be able to spend it all watching you. Can’t have you running off in the confusion.’
‘Fighting today?’
‘Aye.’
‘Can I have my knives back?’
