by John Gwynne
Calidus stared back, saying nothing.
‘I do not understand you,’ Nathair shouted. ‘I am no black heart. I stand against Asroth and his darkness.’
‘You will not pass through the gates of Murias by honeyed words and lies,’ Nemain called out. ‘You ride with the Black Heart at your side – that is all I need to know.’
Nathair looked about him, frowning as he stared at Calidus.
‘She lies to you, Nathair,’ Calidus proclaimed, his voice ringing against the walls. ‘She serves Asroth, and would hold the cauldron for him.’
‘He does not know,’ Nemain whispered. She shook her head, pity sweeping the contours of her face. Then she raised her arms and began to speak.
The ravens were abruptly thick in the air, more joining them, swirling in a tight vortex, hundreds, thousands of them, more appearing all the time, bursting from cliff nests, flocking from the skies. She swept her arms forward, pointing at Nathair and Calidus, and the ravens flew at them, a gigantic spear of beak and feather and claw.
Calidus lifted one hand and the air shimmered. The ravens hit it, the first of them exploding into chunks, those behind spreading out about something almost invisible, a shield of air curving around Calidus and Nathair, protecting them and the warriors immediately behind. The birds swept about it, ploughing into the warriors behind. Screams rose up as these men were engulfed by the dark flock of ravens, horses rearing, warriors drawing swords and slashing the air.
They cannot reach Calidus or Nathair, but even so these birds will turn the battle. The Jehar cannot fall. Their numbers are needed if the cauldron is to be taken.
Uthas looked from Nemain to the birds, still more of them gathering and flying at the host before the gates. The air was thick with them, swirling all about the Jehar, blood and feathers exploding in a hundred different places as the Jehar tried to cut the ravens from the sky. Uthas saw horses and warriors collapsed on the roadside, torn bloody by the remorseless tide of beak and talon.
Now. I must do something, now.
He looked to Nemain, all her will focused on the scene before her. Beads of sweat stood on her brow, dripped down her face.
His hand drifted to his knife hilt, but still he hesitated. Nemain had been queen for close to three thousand years; how could he strike her down?
She stands in my way. In the way of my kin. She will see us all in our graves. Kill her.
He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling as if his whole life, two thousand years, had come down to this one moment.
I cannot kill her. I will talk to her, convince her.
‘Nemain . . .’
She didn’t hear him, her focus entirely upon the host at her gates. He said her name again, louder, and her gaze flickered towards him.
Then there was a fluttering sound from above. A raven drifted down, wings stretched to slow its descent. It landed on her shoulder and put its beak to her ear.
Is that Fech? It can’t be . . .
Nemain’s eyes snapped onto him, her mouth opening.
‘Sreng,’ she called.
Uthas stepped forwards, drawing his knife.
‘Greim,’ Nemain said, and Uthas felt the air grow thick about him, congealing like spilt blood. Around his limbs, his chest and hips, his face, slowing him, binding him. He tried to push through it, to force his knife into her flesh, but he moved as if through sand. Behind him he heard the clash of weapons, dim and muted – Sreng and Salach. He came to a halt, his fist quivering as he tried to move it, the invisible pressure constricting about him, a fist around his throat.
‘Fuasgail,’ he whispered with the last breath in his lungs. There was a moment when his life hung in the balance, a pressure growing in his head, a burning in his lungs, then the grip about him evaporated. He staggered forwards and lunged at Nemain, the clash of weapons behind him suddenly loud, deafening. Nemain grabbed his wrist and twisted, her other hand reaching for his throat. Her strength took him by surprise and he staggered backwards, managed to grasp her arm before her fingers fastened about his neck. Locked together, they reeled about the balcony, knocking chairs over, crashing into a table.
‘Traitor,’ she hissed at him, a depth of pain in her eyes that caused him to falter. The sound of combat stopped.
Either Salach has killed Sreng, or she has slain him. He waited for Sreng’s axe to fall, but instead Nemain jerked before him, was thrown into his arms. They stood like that, gazing into each other’s eyes, then blood gushed from Nemain’s mouth. She flew across the room as Salach wrenched his axe from her back, her body draping over the balcony.
Uthas stared at her, at the great wound in her back, blood and bone mixed.
What have I done?
He stumbled over to her, lifted her legs and threw her from the balcony, an instinctive reaction to his shame, a childish denial. She toppled over the balcony’s edge, tumbling over and over as she sped to the ground. He leaned over, watching her fall.
‘Uthas, we must be quick now.’ Salach’s voice, as if from a great distance. He tore his eyes from the ruin of Nemain, spread across the mountainside, his gaze brushing across Nathair’s host. They were recovering now, the ravens dispersing about them, melting into the sky, purposeless and confused.
Without a word he turned and strode from the room.
The kin parted around him as he made his way through the great chamber before Murias’ gates. Whispers followed him, murmurs. He ignored them all, his eyes touching on the faithful, those he had turned to his cause over the ages. Silently they gathered behind him, until he led a party of forty, fifty strong.
No one hindered him, or questioned him.
They think I follow Nemain’s orders. Perhaps that I am come to speak to them, to offer words of encouragement, of honour and courage.
In the end he reached the gates and stood to one side, turning to face the crowd – the gathered mass of the Benothi giants.
‘Where is Nemain?’ a voice cried. It was old One-Eye, stepping out before the others. His white hair was tied back in a thick braid, his arms bare, displaying his tale of thorns, a war-hammer in his hands.
‘She is dead,’ Uthas cried.
A ripple went through the crowd, mutterings of discontent.
‘We stand on the edge now,’ he called out. ‘What happens next will determine the fate of the Benothi. Annihilation or rebirth. Join me; join us.’ He swept his hand at the giants with him, standing in a line before the gates.
‘And if we do not join you?’ One-Eye again.
‘Then you shall be buried and forgotten with the rest of the dead,’ Uthas cried, at the same time signalling to his followers.
As one they shouldered the oak timbers that barred the gateway, letting them fall to the ground with a crash. The gates swung open, a widening shaft of twilight cutting into the chamber. Uthas looked out, saw Nathair on his draig, the Jehar massed behind him.
The draig roared and charged forwards.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TEN
CYWEN
Cywen guided Shield after Alcyon, trying to avoid the surrounding battle, looking for any opportunity to make her escape. Alcyon had hung back after Nathair had charged through the gates of Murias, letting the Jehar stream past them. Cywen had the impression that Alcyon would like nothing more than to take his axe to the Benothi giants of Murias, but he had been ordered to watch her and keep her safe, and charging into battle would not be the best way of accomplishing that task. Plus fighting giants was not so easy with someone tied to your belt.
Cywen had only just recovered from the horror of the raven attack. Although she had been close enough to Calidus to be protected by his shield she had still seen the full effect of the attack on the warriors behind her. There had been so many of the ravens, a torrent of talons and beaks, too many to defend against. She saw Jehar cut ten, twenty, thirty from the air, even as they were being clawed and gouged by a hundred others. And the poor horses. Hundreds had been left dead or dying on the slope before the gates.
/>
And then, as suddenly as it had started, it had ended, the birds wheeling away in confusion.
It had seemed that only heartbeats had passed before the gates of Murias swung open. The roar of Nathair’s draig had set the ground trembling, and then all had been a chaos of movement: horses galloping, men drawing swords, Alcyon tugging her forwards.
They were standing now just within the gates, on the edge of a huge chamber, the roof cloaked in darkness, too high for torchlight to reach. It was deafening, a thousand noises mixing: screams of the dying, enraged battle-cries, horses neighing, the draig’s basal roaring, the ring of iron on iron, the crunch of war-hammers pulping flesh and breaking bone.
Cywen saw Nathair on the back of his draig, swinging his sword, Calidus one side of him, Sumur the other, the three of them a spear-tip carving its way deeper into the chamber.
‘I cannot just stand here,’ Alcyon said. ‘Stay close to me.’ He hefted his black axe. ‘But not too close.’
With that he was moving forwards, striding through the wake of Nathair’s passing. The giants had lost their height advantage with all of the Jehar fighting from the backs of their horses; the chamber was so huge that it easily accommodated them all.
Alcyon swung at a giant that had one hand wrapped in a horse’s bridle, the other pulling a hammer back ready to crush the animal’s skull. Alcyon’s axe sheared through the giant’s arm, the backswing chopping into his back. The giant collapsed in an eruption of blood, then Alcyon was stepping over him, past a dead horse, its rider crushed beneath it, looking for his next opponent.
Two giants stumbled close to them, grappling one another. Cywen yanked on Shield’s reins and the horse reared, lashing out with his hooves. The giants were knocked off their feet, rolling amongst the fallen.
They were close to Nathair now. Cywen saw him swinging his sword at a white-haired giant wielding a war-hammer. A handful of the Benothi stood about him, guarding the entrance to a corridor.
The giant blocked Nathair’s sword blow, swung his hammer at Nathair, but the King of Tenebral swayed back in his saddle, the hammer whistling past. The draig reared then and swatted at the giant, sending him and the few gathered about him hurtling through the air like so many twigs. Cywen saw the white-haired giant crash into a wall and slide down it, dead or unconscious.
Then Uthas was there, standing beside Nathair, yelling something over the din of battle.
Nathair gave a great shout as he pointed his sword at the corridor. Uthas strode into it, another giant at his shoulder, carrying an axe. Nathair’s draig powered after them, hundreds of the Jehar following in its wake.
Calidus looked back and saw Alcyon.
‘Stay close,’ he ordered, then rode into the corridor.
Alcyon glanced at Cywen, checked the knot of the rope that bound her to him and then strode into the corridor. Battle still raged in the hall behind them, though the way ahead sounded to be clear, only the sound of hooves on stone echoing back along the passageway.
It felt like a long time that they sped into the bowels of Murias, sporadically the corridors opening out into high-vaulted chambers. Intermittently the sound of battle rang out, as Nathair and his guard encountered another group of the fortress’ defenders. These clashes were always savage but short, Nathair, his draig and the Jehar an inexorable wave pushing forwards. Alcyon increased his speed, Cywen kicking Shield to keep pace, and they gained on Nathair. Then they turned a corner and were before an arched doorway. The entire host rippled to a halt.
‘We are here,’ Uthas said. ‘The cauldron lies in there.’
A silence fell over them, just the deep rumble of the draig’s breathing filling the corridor.
Nathair lifted his reins, about to urge the draig on.
‘Wait,’ Uthas said. ‘It is not undefended.’
‘I will slay a nation of giants to get to the cauldron,’ he snarled.
‘There are more than giants in there.’
‘I have come too far. Nothing will keep me from my destiny now.’ Nathair snapped a command to his draig and the beast scuttled forwards. It reared up, slamming both of its clawed front feet into the doors. They crashed open, tearing from their hinges and toppling into the chamber beyond.
Without a backward look Nathair entered the chamber.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN
MAQUIN
Maquin stared across the space of the arena at Orgull. His old Gadrai sword-brother walked straight-backed, though slowly, and favouring one leg.
How is it possible? Maquin thought. He should be dead, or crippled. His mind raced back to when he’d seen him last in Lykos’ chamber – Orgull hanging from the wall, chained, beaten, broken, his face a bloody ruin. How has he recovered so much? It is not possible. He took an involuntary step forwards.
The guards about Orgull fell away. Emad appeared from behind him carrying Orgull’s giant axe, the one he had taken from the tomb beneath Haldis.
Orgull should not be able to lift it, let alone wield it.
Orgull took the axe, holding it two-handed across his chest, and paced forward.
The volume of the crowd rose. Close by, Maquin heard cage bars rattling; he looked and saw a line of pit-fighters in a viewing cage. Javed amongst them. He looked back to Orgull.
They were only a dozen paces apart when they both stopped. Close up, Orgull was not as recovered as Maquin had thought. The left side of his face was a mass of puckered skin, burned and raw. One eye was gone, just a fold of wax-like flesh covering the place where it should have been. Teeth were missing, his body was scarred. He was standing straight, gripping his axe, but Maquin could see that took considerable effort. Sweat beaded Orgull’s face, and his limbs were trembling.
Even his voice was different, hissing through missing teeth and cracked lips. Almost nothing was left of the man from the time-before.
‘It’s good to see you, brother,’ Orgull said.
‘Orgull, what is this madness?’
‘They want you to kill me – me, the one who rose against them, slain by my former Gadrai brother. They’ve given me seed of the poppy, for the pain. My strength isn’t what it was, though.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Because death will be a sweet release. Every man has a limit, Maquin, and they have found mine.’ A tremor rippled through his voice. ‘And because I wanted to see you again. Talk to you.’
The cheering of the crowd grew louder, and Maquin looked to see Lykos entering the ring, flanked by Deinon and a handful of shieldmen. He was striding towards them.
‘Whatever you want to say, you’d best say it quick,’ Maquin hissed.
‘Kill me now; release me from this hell. Earn your freedom from slavery. I know you will seek out Jael, and I wish you well. If you succeed, though, do one thing for me.’
‘What?’
‘Find Meical, the man I told you about. Tell him I stayed true, to the end.’
Lykos was upon them then, arms raised, turning to take in the crowd.
He has become a showman. He knows how to manipulate and control people – that is for sure.
Maquin thought briefly about killing Lykos, after all the bastard had done to him, the hellish nightmare of the journey from Dun Kellen, branding him, taking his warrior braid, forcing him on this road to murder. The torture and breaking of his Gadrai brother. His grip tightened on his knives. Then he saw the guards – Deinon, Herak, Emad, a few others behind, all watching him, all tense, ready to move, as if they could read his mind.
I would not get close.
And then the moment had passed.
Even as Lykos finished his turn, one of his hands was creeping inside his cloak, searching for something.
Is it a knife? Is he so certain of being attacked at any moment?
‘This is the final contest of the day, on this most happy of days,’ Lykos yelled, the crowd quietening to a murmur. ‘Two sword-sworn brothers to compete. One the betrayer and renegade, against the old wo
lf, the fighter who has kept his honour, fought his way through all put before him. One will live, one will die; there is no other way out of the pit.’
Lykos has a strange idea of what honour is.
‘Begin,’ he called.
Orgull moved on him, jabbing with the butt-end of his axe. Maquin easily slipped out of its way, instinctively raising his two knives. He almost lunged into attack, so ingrained was his training; when he realized what he was doing he pulled back.
Orgull jabbed again, then with gritted teeth swung the axe in a two-handed blow. Maquin ducked, the blade whistling over his head. The crowd yelled their approval. Maquin danced back again. Behind him someone booed.
‘What are you doing?’ Orgull hissed. ‘We have to make this convincing for them.’ He rushed forward then, his axe swinging in looping arcs over his head, only Maquin seeing the spasm of pain that twisted his face.
Maquin retreated, using his knives to strike glancing blows on the axe haft, turning it as Vandil, their Gadrai captain, had taught them to turn a giant’s blows – not taking the brunt of them, but striking at angles, turning weapons, using their own momentum, changing angles with a twist of the wrist, a sliding blade.
The crowd burst into life, cheering as Orgull surged on, continuing his flurry of blows unrelentingly.
Just kill him, Maquin thought, shifting his weight, avoiding another axe swing, seeing an opening to drive a knife between Orgull’s ribs. It would be so easy. He wants me to do it; it would be a mercy killing. And then I will be free. Free to hunt down Jael, to take my revenge, to leave all this life behind.
He looked at Orgull’s face; the physical effort was putting deep lines in his skin. Spittle hung in long strings from his lips. What have they done to you? Memories rushed through him, snatched images: Orgull riding patrol along the banks of the Rhenus, fighting Hunen giants before the walls of Haldis, dragging him into safety in the tomb where Kastell died, sitting around a fire telling the tale of his youth.
