by John Gwynne
The road dropped steeply, mist rolling up to meet them, swirling around their horses’ hooves. Kastell turned in his saddle, saw it creeping up the wheels of the wains behind. He shivered, suddenly cold.
They rode in silence for a while, the ground levelling beneath them, engulfed by the mist, sound muted. Kastell could only hear the jangle of his own horse’s harness, the creak of a wheel behind him, and, more faintly, the trickle of the stream somewhere up ahead.
‘I don’t like this,’ he muttered to himself. Maquin and Aguila were dim forms either side of him.
‘Aye, lad,’ Maquin grumbled. ‘Neither do I.’ He dug his heels into his horse’s side.
Suddenly there was a hissing sound all about them and, with a wet thunk and a blur of motion, Aguila disappeared from his saddle. Screams erupted all around, Maquin and Kastell spinning on their mounts, ducking low, searching for Aguila.
They found him, a spear shaft as thick as Kastell’s wrist jutting from his chest. His eyes stared sightlessly, dark blood pooling around his back, running from his mouth. Kastell fell to his knees beside the fallen warrior.
‘Quickly, lad!’ Maquin shouted. ‘You can’t help him now.’ He spurred his horse towards a cluster of shadows behind them.
Kastell followed, the thought of being left alone in this cursed mist setting a fire beneath his feet.
He burst upon a scene from a nightmare. A horse harnessed to a wain was pinned by a spear to the ground, screaming, eyes rolling white, blood frothing from its mouth. More dead bodies were strewn on the floor, merchants and warriors caught in the rain of spears. Then, out of the dense whiteness came huge shadowy figures. The Hunen. Kastell saw a giant, at least half a man taller than him. Black braided hair framed a snarling, angular face, eyes sunken to dark pits. Kastell gasped as he realized it was a woman, breasts wrapped tight in strips of leather. She came howling into their midst, an axe whirling above her head. Blood sprayed and another man fell to the floor, head and body rolling in different directions. Maquin pulled his arm back and threw, his spear piercing black leather armour, sinking into the giant’s shoulder, spinning her. She straightened, plucked it out, looking more angry than injured.
Maquin rode at the giant, slashing with his sword. There was a crash of iron as the Hunen blocked Maquin’s strike and lunged forwards with the head of her axe, hurling Maquin from his saddle. Kastell hefted his spear, thought better of it, dug his heels into his horse’s flanks instead and charged straight at the massive warrior as she raised her axe above Maquin. Too late she heard the thud of hooves. Kastell held tight to the reins as his horse reared, hooves lashing out, catching the giant in the face, turning it to bloody ruin, sending her crashing to the floor like a felled tree. Kastell stabbed down hard with his spear and Maquin scrabbled on the prone figure, sword rising and falling in a red arc.
Kastell caught Maquin’s horse, shook the reins at him. The old warrior was standing over the giant’s corpse, nostrils flaring, matted blood making his grey hair dark and slick. He blinked as Kastell thrust the reins into his hand, then shook his head and climbed into his saddle. They were alone again, the sounds of battle still all around, but could see nothing.
‘We must find higher ground,’ Maquin muttered. Kastell nodded and they struck out together, hoping that they were moving in the right direction. Very soon the land steepened and in a few more moments they burst into sunlight, turning to look back into the dell.
The entire hollow was filled with the treacherous mist, dim figures moving here and there within it. Looking beyond it there was an open space of sunlit meadow before the forest. A handful of men burst from the dell into this space, heading for the treeline, but giants lumbered out of the gloom and fell howling upon them, hacking until none was left standing.
‘We must leave,’ Maquin said quietly. ‘And quickly, before we are seen. Our horses can outrun the Hunen in a sprint, but they are like hounds. If they spot us and decide to chase they could follow us for nights without end.’
‘But . . .’ Kastell began. Every sense within him screamed to run, to turn his horse and gallop as fast as he could from this place of madness and blood, but something kept him from doing it. ‘But we were supposed to protect them.’
‘Aye, lad,’ Maquin growled, ‘but there is no one left to protect down there. Listen.’
He was right, the sounds of battle were gone. Kastell heard the whinny of a dying horse, the squawking of crows that circled greedily above, smelling blood even if they could not see it, but nothing else. The silence was almost as frightening as the earlier sounds of battle. He nodded and they wheeled their horses, kicking them towards the track they had ridden in on.
A fierce baying caused Kastell to rein his horse in and stare back down into the dell.
The mist was evaporating now, the bodies of horses and men scattered about the wains in bloody ruin, the stream flowing a sickly pink. Giants were clustered about a wain, hacking at the crates piled upon it. Suddenly a great cry rose up from them, one reaching into the crate, pulling something out and brandishing it in the air. It glinted in the sunlight.
Maquin hissed. ‘The starstone axe.’
‘What? How?’ Kastell gasped.
‘Damned if I know,’ Maquin said.
A strange-sounding horn blast rose from the dell, and a cold shaft of fear spiked into Kastell’s gut. They had been seen: at least a score of the Hunen breaking into a loping run up the mountain track after them.
Kastell exchanged a glance with Maquin and they wheeled their horses and spurred them up the path.
‘Careful!’ Maquin shouted over the drum of their horses’ hooves. ‘If we press for the gallop our mounts will be blowing before highsun. This pace is faster than the Hunen can manage, so stick to it, put some distance between us and them, hope they give up the chase.’
‘But, you said . . .’
‘I know what I said, boy,’ Maquin growled back.
Kastell breathed deep, holding the panic at bay and focused on the track in front of him.
They rode in silence, the only sound the drumming of hooves and the blasts of air blowing from the horses’ nostrils. As the sun passed its highest point they splashed into a stream that ran across their path. They reined in their horses and climbed out of their saddles, filling their water skins, giving the horses a chance to drink and rest.
Maquin drank deeply. He stood staring at the road behind them, then suddenly sprang towards his horse.
‘On your feet, the Hunen are coming.’
The old warrior was not someone to be argued with, particularly as he appeared now, with giant’s blood drying black on his hair and face. Kastell looked towards the horizon and saw a mass of lumbering shapes come into view. Quickly he mounted up, sweat drying salt-white in his horse’s coat and set off again.
Their horses settled into a steady canter on the wide track. Occasionally Kastell glanced over his shoulder, sometimes catching a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. As the sun sank into the horizon before them, their shadows stretching far behind, Maquin called another halt.
‘How was the axe on that wain?’ Kastell said.
‘Stolen by Aguila’s employer, is my guess,’ Maquin shrugged.
‘But the Hunen – how did they know it was there?’
‘I don’t know, lad. Foul magic?’ He shrugged.
‘How did we ever beat them?’ Kastell asked.
‘We?’
‘Mankind. How did we ever beat the giants?’ The black-haired giant that had almost killed Maquin stood clear in his mind’s eye.
‘Hard to believe, eh,’ Maquin said. ‘Truth be told, although the old tales tell of great deeds of valour, I suspect it came down to numbers. There were more of us than them. That and the pride of the giants. They looked down on us, never considering us a real danger. There’s a lesson there. Even if you’re as strong and fierce as a giant, never underestimate a foe.’ He hawked and spat. ‘So, lad, you going to join the Gadrai now?’
Kastell looked at him, confused.
‘You killed a giant. I’ll speak as witness. I saw you do it with my own eyes.’
Kastell snorted. ‘Giantess,’ he corrected. ‘And if they give a place to anyone in the Gadrai, it should probably go to my horse.’ He patted its trembling flank. ‘It was him that killed the giant, though you made sure of it.’
‘Just didn’t want her getting back up,’ Maquin said with a quick smile. ‘Took grit, what you did, lad. And you saved my life. I won’t be forgetting that.’
Kastell looked away, embarrassed. ‘What do you think our chances are?’
Maquin was silent a long while. ‘I do not think they’ll follow us much past the Rhenus. If we can cross the river into Isiltir, they will likely give up the chase. As they have followed us this far I doubt they will stop before then.’
‘But we have travelled five days since the Rhenus,’ Kastell said, trying to keep the fear from his voice.
‘Aye, true enough; but that was at a different speed, with wains setting the pace. Already we have crossed ground that it took almost two days to cover with the wains.’ He pulled a face. ‘But the horses are tiring; we have ridden them too hard. We must travel through the night if there is to be a chance of living till the morrow, but it will be slower going. My guess is that, if the Hunen have not caught us by highsun tomorrow, we will be in sight of the river. If we travel through the night and if the horses have not died beneath us.’
‘What good is sleep if it means a spear up your arse?’ said Kastell. Maquin nodded grimly.
They ate some salted meat, washing it down with water.
‘Mount up. Let’s see if we can live to see the sun rise.’
The night passed in a daze for Kastell, the horses slowing to an exhausted walk for most of it. He dozed fitfully many times, only to jerk awake as he started to slip from the saddle, and more than once he put out a hand to stop the same happening to Maquin. He thanked Elyon in mumbled prayers through the night for keeping the sky clear, so that the moon and stars shone bright, giving light enough to see the mountain track. Dawn came unnoticed, the sky greying, turning a deep blue before they realized the night was over. Maquin would not let them stop yet, though. A thick mist covered the meadows below, forming a grey mantle up to the feet of the forest. Maquin eyed it suspiciously and kept his mount moving doggedly forward.
The sun was hot on their backs, the mist below burned away when they eventually did stop, almost falling from their saddles. Kastell tried to check for followers, but the sun was low in the sky, and blinded him as he squinted back along the mountain path.
‘Drink,’ Maquin muttered, pouring some water into a cupped hand and giving it to his horse.
Kastell checked behind him again. Black forms materialized out of the bright sun, closer, much closer than he had thought possible. He grabbed Maquin’s arm, squawking a warning.
‘Ride!’ Maquin yelled and shoved Kastell towards his horse.
They kicked their mounts mercilessly, urging them into full gallop, all thoughts of pacing lost as death closed in behind them. Panic rose bubbling in Kastell and he shouted at his mount, urging it on. They crested a ridge and he saw a flash in the distance, the Rhenus curling away from the mountains, then the track fell into a shallow dip before another ridge and the river disappeared. Something screamed behind him, followed by a crash. He twisted in his saddle, saw Maquin lying on the ground, his horse behind him, its foreleg twisted impossibly beneath it. He turned his mount, rode back to Maquin, who was scrambling to his feet, dirt and blood caking one side of his face. One look at his mount showed it would not be getting up.
‘His leg’s broken,’ said Maquin. Kastell offered his hand and Maquin grabbed it, swinging into the saddle behind Kastell. His horse danced on the spot, its legs trembling. Kastell cursed and kicked and the horse began to move, but not much faster than a walk. They travelled only a few paces, then Maquin swore and slipped to the ground.
‘Ride, boy,’ he said to Kastell. ‘If one of us makes it, it will be something.’ Kastell stared silently back at him. ‘Ride on, lad,’ Maquin grunted as he calmly strapped his helmet on. ‘Go now,’ Maquin urged, ‘’fore it’s too late for you as well. Did you see the river?’ Kastell nodded. ‘With the time I buy you here, there is still hope. There is no shame in this, lad. Live.’
For a moment Kastell sat there, thoughts swirling through his mind in an exhausted jumble, then he shook his head and climbed off his horse. ‘Can’t get rid of me that easily,’ he mumbled.
Maquin smiled grimly. ‘Then give me your spear at least. I left mine in a giant, and you could’na hit the broadside of a ship at ten paces.’
Kastell grinned. He passed his spear to Maquin, unstrapped his shield. His horse was exhausted, certainly no use in the fight to come. He slapped it hard on the flank, sending it trotting up the incline and disappearing over the ridge.
The men stood shoulder to shoulder as the Hunen crested the ridge they had just crossed. Kastell felt a stab of fear in his belly, his bowels turning to water as the giants saw them and began howling strange, ululating cries. Then they fell silent, their iron-shod feet thudding on the ground. Kastell tried to count them. At least a score, maybe more, it was hard to tell; the women amongst them only discernible by the lack of moustaches and beards. Sunshine glinted on iron as they pulled axes and hammers from straps on their backs.
He heard a whisper beside him, saw Maquin, eyes closed, lips moving. Then his eyes snapped open, arm drawing back, whipping forwards, Kastell’s spear flying into the air. It rose and fell in a fluid arc. A giant stumbled, fell and did not rise again.
Kastell’s sword hissed from its scabbard. With a blade in his hand he felt a different person, no longer clumsy. He vowed to take at least one of these monsters with him across the bridge of swords. In the distance behind him he heard a rumble, as of thunder, and glanced up at the sky, but it was a clear blue. The giants were close enough to make out individual features. Black leather armour covered them, wrapped about them in strange patterns. Tattoos spiralled their arms, dark eyes glowered in pale faces, all framed with braided black hair, the males with long drooping moustaches.
The giants swept around Maquin’s fallen horse. Kastell muttered a last prayer to Elyon and raised his sword. Thunder sounded again, louder. This time, instead of fading, it grew, and suddenly Maquin was shoving him out of the track. He fell and rolled in the gravel, cursing a protest. The rumbling grew until the ground shook, and Kastell realized it was not coming from the sky, but from beyond the ridge behind them. Horses suddenly crested it, sweeping down like a great wave, and riding at their head, in a coat of gleaming mail, was his uncle. Like an avenging angel from the time before the Scourging, Romar had come.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CORBAN
Corban clung to Gar as they rode down the giantsway. He could hear more than he could see, as his face was filled with the stablemaster’s billowing cloak. An orange glow flickered about them, light from the torches that many had lit on the way to Darol’s hold, but nevertheless the journey in the dark was slow and tedious and he had no way of knowing how much longer it would take them to reach the stockade, for the company rode in grim silence. All he could hear was the thud of hooves on the ancient road. Still, at least I’m here, he thought, remembering how he had pleaded with Gar to take him.
‘How far?’ he said into Gar’s back, not for the first time, but the stablemaster was silent. He repeated himself, a little louder.
‘Not long,’ Gar grunted, ‘and I swear, if you ask me that question again, I shall throw you from my horse.’
Corban pulled a sour face but chose to say nothing. Dylan’s face flashed into his mind again, where it had been almost permanently since he had seen the hold burning. Many had run to the stables at Gar’s call, and Corban was riding in a party at least two score strong, including Brenin the King. He sighed and clung tighter to Gar.
After what seemed an eternity he felt Ga
r’s piebald, Hammer, turn and begin to climb a slope. They had arrived. The sky around him grew lighter, and at first he thought that dawn had crept up unannounced, but then he heard the crackling of flames, smelt the smoke and realized that the light was from Darol’s hold, burning.
The riders pulled to a halt and Corban slipped off, gasping as he looked around. Tongues of flame licked the stockade walls, curling into the dark sky above. A dark hole gaped amidst the flames, billows of black smoke issuing from the open gateway.
Brenin marched up the remainder of the hill, shieldmen rushing to form a half-circle before him.
‘Try not to call attention to yourself, you’re not supposed to be here,’ Gar whispered. Corban nodded, knowing that only those who had come through their warrior trials and the Long Night should have ridden with the King. Not even the likes of Rafe, who now trained in the Rowan Field, had been permitted to join them.
Clouds of smoke enveloped him as he stepped through the open gateway. Mingled with the smell of burning wood was a sweeter, sicklier scent that stuck at the back of his throat. Buildings within the stockade were not burning as fiercely, little left of them but charred beams where the feast-hall and stables had once been.
Brenin knelt in the middle of the yard, a handful of warriors about him. Then the King stood and strode on. Corban sidled forward to see what had held Brenin’s attention.
A figure lay on the floor. It was Darol. A dark stain spread around his stomach. His fingers, bloody and twisted, were fixed in the earth, grasping, gouging.
There was a call from up ahead. A warrior was standing next to a black mound in what had been the feast-hall, prising it apart with the butt end of his spear. Someone else went to help, one of the brothers that had ridden into the village the night before, then others were crowding round, obscuring Corban’s view. He forgot about not calling attention to himself, and shoved his way through the massed warriors until he stood starring at the dissected mound, his boots blackened with soft ash.