by John Gwynne
Corban looked down at himself, covered in mud and leaves, with scrapes on his skin and holes in his cloak and breeches.
‘I was…’ Corban paused, knowing how stupid he was about to sound. ‘I just wanted some quiet, to be alone…’ he said sheepishly, looking at the floor. ‘I got lost.’ The look on Gar’s face convinced him that this would not be a wise time to mention the wolven.
The stablemaster looked at the bedraggled boy in front of him, took a sniff, and sighed deeply.
‘You can thank your sister. She insisted I come and find you when Dath told her about Rafe.’
‘Oh. She knows,’ said Corban, shoulders sinking.
‘Aye, lad, but never mind that now, let’s get you home. If you can keep up with me we should still be able to get back for the hand-binding. At least that way I won’t have saved you just for your mam to kill you.’
‘I think she’s going to kill me anyway,’ Corban said, looking at his torn and tattered cloak.
‘Well, let’s go and find out,’ said Gar, turning his horse and walking away.
CHAPTER SIX
VERADIS
Veradis flexed his shoulders, trying to readjust his chainmail shirt. His skin was chafed raw even through the linen tunic underneath, made worse by the rhythm of his horse as he rode a dozen paces behind Nathair.
Should have worn it more often, he thought, but he had felt uncomfortable. Only a handful of warriors had owned chainmail shirts in Ripa: his brother Krelis of course, as well as his father. Also Alben, the fortress’ weapons-master, and two or three of the local barons’ sons. The few times he had worn it in public he had felt different, set apart, and he’d had more than enough of that feeling already, without adding to it. So the chainmail shirt had remained boxed in his room for the most part.
Nevertheless, he treasured it. Mostly because Krelis had given it to him after his Long Night, the final seal on his warrior trial, when he had passed from boy to man, but also because of the truth in what his brother had told him. Leather may turn a weak or glancing blow, but this will turn a strong one. Treat it like a good friend. And he had, taking it out every night from a wooden chest, oiling it, scouring it, then folding and putting it away again.
Aquilus had granted Nathair’s request, allowing him to lead the warband sent to interrupt Lykos’ meeting, the self-proclaimed king of the corsairs. So Veradis had only slept two nights in Jerolin before climbing back into his saddle again.
He glanced over his shoulder. He was riding near the head of a short column, three abreast, around four score of them, though only half of that number were Nathair’s own recruits in his fledgling warband. The others were picked from Aquilus’ eagle-guard, insisted upon by Fidele, Nathair’s mother.
Either side of him rode Nathair’s followers: Rauca on his left, the third son of a local baron, likeable, easy natured and quick in the weapons court; on the other side Bos, son of one of Aquilus’ eagle-guard. He was thick necked, broad shouldered, with arms like knotted oak.
They had made good time travelling south of Jerolin, passing through leagues of undulating meadow splashed with patches of open woodland, and now, three nights out, Veradis spied the mountains that roughly marked the halfway point of their journey, rearing out of the land like the curved spine of a withered, crippled old man.
‘Veradis,’ Nathair called from up ahead.
Veradis touched his heels to his stallion’s ribs and drew alongside Nathair.
‘We have not yet had the conversation that I promised you,’ Nathair said, glancing at Veradis with an easy smile.
‘You have been busy, my lord,’ Veradis said.
‘Ah ah, none of that “my lord” talk. Remember what I told you?’
‘Apologies, my lo—’ Veradis began, then closed his mouth.
Nathair chuckled. ‘I am glad to have you in my warband. There are not many of us yet, but it shall grow.’
‘Aye.’
‘And you, I hear, are the most skilled swordsman ever to come out of Ripa. A most welcome member to my warband.’
Veradis snorted. ‘Who��?’
‘Your brother. I spoke with him briefly, before he left. He spoke very highly of you, and of your skills.’
‘Oh,’ Veradis breathed, a smile touching his mouth.
‘Your father must be very proud.’ Nathair said.
‘Huh,’ Veradis grunted. He opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say. ‘Aye,’ he eventually mumbled.
‘Krelis. He is well liked. Has it been difficult, growing up in his shadow?’
Veradis frowned, but said nothing.
‘Forgive me if I pry,’ Nathair said, ‘only, it is a subject of interest to me.’
Veradis shrugged. In truth it had been, especially as his father only ever seemed to have eyes, praise, for Krelis. His other brother Ektor had never seemed to care, being content with his books, but Veradis had felt it like a thin sliver of iron working its way deeper and deeper into his flesh. But he loved Krelis, rarely resented him for it, and then only for a passing moment. If anyone were at fault, it was his father. He shrugged again. ‘Sometimes,’ he said.
‘I know something of what it is like, growing up in another’s shadow,’ Nathair said quietly.
Looking at the Prince, Veradis noticed his eyes were bloodshot, dark circles beneath them. ‘Are you well?’ he asked.
‘What? Oh, it’s nothing,’ Nathair said. ‘I did not sleep well, that’s all. Bad dreams.’
They rode together in silence for a while, winding their way through open woods, white campion dotting the ground about them. A handful of woodlarks burst from branches ahead and above, startled by their passing.
‘Did you see the riders that left Jerolin before us?’ the Prince suddenly asked.
‘Aye. I did.’ Over a score of warriors had left the fortress on the day Veradis had been preparing for this journey, all with extra horses, well-provisioned for long journeys. ‘I thought perhaps it was something to do with the return of Meical–he is your father’s counsellor, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he did play a part.’ The Prince scowled a moment, then carried on. ‘The riders are messengers. My father is calling a council, summoning all of the kings throughout the Banished Lands.’
‘All of them?’
‘Aye. A messenger has been sent to the king of every realm.’
‘Why?’
‘Ah. Of that I should not speak, not yet. It is for my father to tell, at the council.’
‘Will they come, the kings of every realm?’
‘They should, my father is high king,’ Nathair said.
‘Perhaps,’ Veradis pulled a face. Aquilus was high king, though more in name than deed. Generations gone, when the Exiles had washed ashore and begun their war against the giant clans, there had been but one king, Sokar, and after the giants had been thrown down and the Banished Lands populated by men, all had bowed to him. But that had been a long time ago; new realms had grown, and now there were many kings in the Banished Lands, though they all still recognized the sovereignty of Tenebral’s master, descended from their first king. In theory, at least.
‘Father says they will come,’ Nathair said with a shrug. ‘Between you and me, I do not really think it matters.’ He leaned closer, spoke more quietly. ‘Did you know that the giant-stones are bleeding?’ He smiled, looking excited. ‘We are living in exceptional times, Veradis, times when we shall have much need of your famed sword-arm, I think. We are on the edge of something new. So this is a good time to be raising a warband. As I said, I am glad that you are a part of it.’
The Prince glanced back at the column behind them. ‘They are good men–brave, loyal, every one of them. But you are a baron’s son. We are more alike. You understand me?’
‘Aye, my lo—’ Veradis said. ‘Yes, I understand. And I am glad to be part of this.’ He felt his curiosity rising, his blood stirring at Nathair’s words. Some part of the Prince’s enthusiasm was infectious. And for the first time in an
age he felt a glimmer of something stir deep inside. He felt of value.
The days rolled past as Veradis and the warband headed steadily southwards. For a time they hugged the mountains Veradis had seen in the distance, crossing fast-flowing, white-foamed rivers that tumbled out of the high places. As the mountains faded behind them, the land began to change: the woods and forests of sycamore and elm disappearing, replaced by leagues of rolling grassland, which in turn grew steadily thinner, paler, the colour and moisture leached from everything by the ever-increasing heat of the sun.
In time they struck the banks of the Nox. The warband crossed the river by an ancient stone bridge, built by the giants generations before. From here they followed the river south, carving a line through the ever-rockier land, until one morning, well before high-sun, Veradis tasted salt on the air and heard the call of gulls in the distance.
The column of riders rippled to a stop as their captain, Orcus, held his hand up. Nathair gestured to summon Veradis and Rauca to join him.
The Prince and his eagle-guard were huddled over a scrolled map. Veradis leaned closer, frowning. He had always struggled with understanding maps, and certainly did not love them as his brother Ektor did, who would spend days in the library at Ripa, poring over the many parchments they had stored there. Some even outlined the boundaries of the giant realms that had ruled the Banished Lands before the Exiles had been washed up onto these shores.
‘We are here,’ Orcus said, finger jabbing at a spot on the map near a coastline.
‘Aye,’ Nathair said. ‘And that would appear to be the mark that the Vin Thalun prisoner spoke of.’ The Prince pointed at a tall cedar, its trunk split and charred by lightning. ‘If he spoke true, this meeting is supposed to take place about a league east of that tree.’
‘We shall see.’ Orcus rolled the map up with a snap and slid it back into a leather case.
‘Let the men know we are near,’ Nathair said to Veradis and Rauca.
The two warriors rode back along the length of the warband, spreading the word. With a wave of his arm, Nathair led them onwards, turning east with the stream.
They soon found themselves in a barren land of low hills, sharp crags and sun-baked, twisting valleys. Nathair halted them a while after midday, the sun a white, merciless thing glaring down at them.
‘We walk from here,’ Nathair called, and with a rattle of harness and iron the four score men dismounted. A dozen stayed behind with the horses, the rest picking a path into a string of low hills.
Veradis wiped sweat from his eyes and took a sip from his water skin. He was more used than most to this heat. His home, Ripa, was much further east along the coast, and almost as far south as they were now, so the climate was similar. The only thing missing was the constant breeze off the bay that seemed always present in Ripa, and here, without it, the heat felt so much worse, suffocating, burning his nose and throat with each breath.
They were climbing a hill, spread out in a long line behind Nathair and Orcus, the hobnails in the leather soles of Veradis’ sandals scratching on the rock-littered ground. The two leaders stopped, heads close together. Orcus signalled for the small warband to spread out into a loose arc before carrying on up the hill.
Veradis used his spear as a staff, shrugged the shield slung across his back into a more comfortable position and laboured up the hill behind Nathair. Before the Prince reached the top of the slope he ducked down onto his belly and crawled the rest of the way. The warband followed, and soon they were ringed about a long ridge, Veradis one side of Nathair, Rauca the other. Cautiously, Veradis peered over the ridge.
The ground dropped steeply away for forty or fifty paces before it levelled out, a stream cutting a gully through a flat-bottomed bowl of stony ground. A small stand of scraggy laurels clustered along the stream’s edge.
Before the trees, in the shade of a huge boulder, was a man. An old man, judging by his silvery hair, pulled back and tied neatly with a leather cord at his nape. He was squatting beside a fire, prodding sparks from it with a stick, something spitted across the flames. He was humming. Behind him, to the left of the laurels, was a brightly coloured tent.
Veradis glanced at Nathair’s frowning face, then back to the old man.
He seemed alone, though it was impossible to be certain. There could be men hiding behind many of the scattered boulders, perhaps hidden in the stand of laurels, and the tent could have concealed at least a dozen more.
‘What do we do?’ Veradis whispered to Nathair.
The Prince shrugged. ‘Wait,’ he muttered.
So they did, the sun beating down on the warband spread along the ridge, Veradis feeling as if he was slowly roasting inside his shirt of mail. The old man in the dell continued to cook and eat whatever it was that he had spitted over the fire. He licked his fingers contentedly when he had finished, cuffed a neatly cropped silver beard and washed his hands in the shallow stream before staring up at the ridge, to where Nathair was crouched.
‘You might as well come down,’ the old man called. ‘I’d rather not have to climb all the way up to you.’
Veradis froze, appalled. He looked at Nathair, who appeared as shocked as he was. The old man repeated his invitation, shrugged, then sat with his back against the boulder.
‘I am going down,’ Nathair whispered. ‘Veradis, Rauca, with me. All else will wait here. He may only have spied one of us moving.’
The Prince stood and slithered down the slope, Veradis and Rauca behind him. Veradis scanned the dell for lurking enemies.
The old man smiled as he rose, waiting for Nathair to draw closer. There was a scuffing sound behind them; Veradis then saw Orcus sliding down the ridge to join them.
‘Welcome, Nathair ben Aquilus,’ the old man said, bowing low.
Veradis scanned the old man for weapons, but could see none. There was a strength, a sense of energy about him, his bare arms wiry with lean muscle. His face was deeply lined, a hint of good humour dancing in his eyes, which looked strange. Were they tinged with yellow?
‘King Lykos?’ Nathair said, stopping half a dozen paces before the man, Veradis, Rauca and Orcus spreading either side of him, a pace behind.
‘Me? Lykos?’ the man said, still smiling. ‘Sadly, no. I wish it were true, I envy his youth and vigour. I am but a servant of Lykos. He bid me apologize for his absence.’
‘Where is he?’ Nathair asked, eyes flitting amongst the boulders.
‘He has been unavoidably detained,’ the old man replied. ‘So he sent me, instead.’
‘And you are?’
‘I am the counsellor of the Vin Thalun, adviser to Lykos, King of the Three Islands and the Tethys Sea,’ the old man said, bowing again. Orcus snorted.
Veradis noted that the man had not actually given his name.
‘And the baron that you are to meet?’ Nathair said.
‘Ah, yes.’ The old man tugged at his short beard. ‘You must understand, Lykos and I were very eager to meet you. The rendezvous with a baron was an… elaboration. It seemed the best way to ensure your presence.’
‘What? But, how did you know I would come?’
The counsellor smiled. ‘Well, it is common knowledge that Peritus your father’s first-sword is leading a campaign against the giants, dragging the bulk of Jerolin’s warband around the Agullas Mountains, so that rules him out. Then, as suspicion has been cast on one of your father’s other barons, Aquilus would be most unlikely–in fact, foolish–to send one of them on this task. Who else was left that your father could trust? And it is no secret that you are, uh, overdue, in leading a campaign.’
Nathair scowled, flushing red. ‘So all of this,’ he said, waving a hand around the dell, ‘it was just a ruse?’
‘Aye, although that would not be my word of choice. As I said, I was very eager to meet you.’
‘Why?’
‘Now that is a very good question. Right to the heart of the matter,’ the old man said. ‘A question that requires a detailed answ
er. Perhaps you would care to step into my tent? There are chairs, wine, fruit. A more fitting environment for a long conversation.’
Nathair frowned, eyes narrowing.
‘Not quite ready for that yet,’ the counsellor shrugged. ‘I can detect a distinct lack of trust in you, Prince.’
‘Understandable, I think, under the circumstances,’ Nathair said.
‘Indeed, indeed. Well, for now perhaps the short version, then. Lykos wishes there to be an understanding between us.’
‘Us?’ Orcus snapped.
‘The mainland of Tenebral and the Islands. A truce, an alliance, even.’
‘Pfah,’ spat Orcus, but Nathair just stared at Lykos’ counsellor.
‘Father would never agree. He hates the Vin Thalun islanders.’
‘Yes, we are aware of Aquilus’ disposition,’ the counsellor said. ‘That is, in part, why I am speaking to you, Nathair. But, more than that, you are the future of Tenebral, and of any treaty between us. You.’
‘My father is king, not I.’
‘At present, true. But that will not always be so.’ The old man smiled, as if talking with an old friend. ‘The older you get, the more likely you are to become fixed in your ways, in your opinions. Sometimes fresh blood is needed to guide the way. These are exciting times, as I would think your father has discussed with you. Perhaps your opinion, your guidance, is of worth.’ He looked intently at the Prince.
Nathair snorted, but did not look away from the counsellor’s gaze. ‘Even if I were to agree that there may be some value in an alliance between us, how would I ever trust you?’ the Prince said. ‘A people that have preyed upon those weaker than themselves, that burn and steal, that, until now, have not even been able to maintain a truce amongst themselves?’
‘Back to that again,’ the counsellor frowned. ‘Trust. A most important foundation to any relationship. I could smother you with words, promises, but they are easily spoken. I do not think you would be swayed by them. The old man took a step towards his cooking fire. ‘Perhaps a more practical demonstration of trust is required here.’