by John Gwynne
‘Nevertheless, it is for the greater good,’ Nathair said.
‘But how can you trust them?’ Rauca muttered.
‘I don’t. But they did prove their point,’ the Prince said. ‘They could have slain me, if they wished. They clearly want me to trust them. Why, we shall find out. And a great deal of what they said is true – an alliance would be useful. There is much that could be accomplished with their aid. I will use them as they seek to use me.’
‘Just be careful,’ Veradis said, glancing at Rauca.
‘Of course,’ Nathair grinned. ‘Friends close and enemies closer, eh.’
‘Did he tell you his name?’ Veradis asked.
‘Aye. Calidus,’ Nathair said quietly, almost a whisper. ‘It is not to be mentioned. Apparently he and my father had some kind of disagreement, many years ago. I would not have my father reject all I have achieved because of a name.’ He looked at Rauca and Veradis. ‘I will have your oaths on this.’
‘Of course,’ Rauca said. Veradis nodded.
Nathair smiled suddenly, nodding to himself. ‘As I said, it is for the greater good.’
The black walls of Jerolin glinted in the bright sun as Veradis crested a low rise, saw the fortress and lake before him, on the horizon the Agullas Mountains a serrated line separating land from sky.
The journey back had been uneventful, the warband making good time, and all were relieved to escape the heat of the south. It was still hot here, in the north of Tenebral, but it was tempered by a breeze that blew down from the mountains.
Fisher-boats and larger merchant rigs bobbed on the lake as the warband rode past the palisaded walls of the village by the lake and up a slope to the fortress. The eagle-banner of Tenebral snapped in the wind, and with a clatter on stone they were through the wide-arched gates and dismounting at the stables.
All was chaos, stablehands and warriors and horses crushed together. Veradis saw Valyn trying to bring some semblance of order to the situation, his voice raised over a cacophony of sounds. Then King Aquilus and Queen Fidele were there, flanked by warriors, and the stables noticeably calmed.
Fidele ran to Nathair and hugged him tight, the Prince looking stiff in her embrace, eyes searching for his father. Aquilus stood further back and greeted his son more soberly. The King called Orcus, and the four of them left, heading towards the feast-hall and tower beyond.
A good while later Veradis followed Rauca and Bos into the feast-hall. Bos slammed a jug of wine on the table. He poured three cups and drained his in one motion.
‘I can see how you got so big,’ Rauca said, looking at Bos’ overflowing trencher. Bos shrugged and continued eating.
Veradis tucked in to his food, sitting back when he was finished and pushing his empty plate away. He sipped on his cup of wine and looked around the half-empty hall.
‘Is that Peritus?’ he asked quietly, looking at a group of warriors on the far side of the hall. Sitting in their centre was a slim-built older man, of average height, his close-cropped hair and single warrior braid not hiding his thinning hair.
‘Aye,’ Bos grunted.
‘I thought so,’ Veradis said. He had seen Aquilus’ battlechief once before, but that had been at least eight summers gone, and he had only been ten years old at the time. Peritus had led a warband to his home town and helped his father deal with a band of lawless men that had taken root in Tenebral’s greatest forest.
‘He arrived this morning,’ Rauca said, ‘not long before us. With only half the warband he set out with.’
‘What happened?’ Veradis asked.
‘Giants. They’ve been raiding south of the mountains. Local barons prodded at Marcellin; he prodded Aquilus; Aquilus sent Peritus.’
‘Only half came back? I didn’t know there were enough of the giant clan left to do that,’ Veradis said, thinking of Balara, the ruined fortress that sat crumbling near his home. Tenebral was full of reminders of the giants, but the giant clan had been broken, scattered generations before; or so he had thought.
‘Don’t need to be too many of them to do a lot of damage,’ Bos said. ‘My da served under Marcellin before he took up the eagle here, said you need at least four handy warriors to be sure of taking one giant down.’
‘Not if your name’s Veradis,’ Rauca said. ‘He’ll take them on one on one.’ The warrior grinned and cracked his cup of wine into Veradis’, spilling red liquid on the table. Veradis scowled.
Just then a small group of warriors entered the hall, Armatus, the weapons-master, at their head. He saw Peritus and strode over to the battlechief. They embraced, thumping each other on the back.
‘They grew up in the same village,’ Rauca said. ‘Came to Jerolin together to join the warband, back when Aquilus was the Prince.’
Soft footsteps sounded behind them and stopped next to Veradis. He looked around, saw Fidele standing above him. The Queen’s face was pale, highlighting her red-painted lips; touches of silver showed in her jet hair.
The three warriors made to rise but she held a hand out and rested it on Veradis’ shoulder.
‘I heard what you did for my son.’
Veradis felt he should say something and opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ Fidele continued. ‘He needs good men around him. Men like you.’
‘Thank you,’ Veradis mumbled, feeling heat in his face.
Fidele smiled, squeezed his shoulder and walked away.
‘Brave you might be,’ Rauca said, ‘but eloquent you certainly are not.’
Bos chuckled and Veradis blushed redder.
The next ten-night passed quickly for Veradis, life falling into a routine, most of his time spent in training with Nathair’s fledgling warband. The Prince was rarely with them, though. Upon his return Nathair had outlined their journey and the meeting with Lykos’ counsellor to Aquilus, detailing the treaty proposed by the Vin Thalun. Aquilus had not been as enthusiastic as Nathair had hoped, though, taking days to deliberate over the proposal. So when Veradis had last seen Nathair the Prince had been tense and short tempered.
The warband, though small, continued to grow: any that came to the fortress hoping to serve as a warrior for the King of Tenebral being offered the choice of joining Nathair’s band instead. On the eighth morning since their return from the south, Veradis was in the weapons court, sweating heavily after sparing with Bos, his knuckles red and stinging from a glancing blow. He had won the bout, though, and was quickly getting a reputation amongst Jerolin’s warriors. On more than one occasion he had noticed weapons-master Armatus watching him approvingly.
As he sat watching others train, letting the sun dry his sweat, footsteps sounded behind him. He turned and saw Nathair striding towards him, grinning broadly.
‘It is done, Father has agreed,’ the Prince said, clapping Veradis’ shoulder.
‘That is good,’ Veradis said, though years of mistrust where the Vin Thalun were concerned dampened his enthusiasm.
‘Our prisoner Deinon will take the answer to Lykos.’
‘Aquilus not separating his head from his shoulders, then?’ Veradis said.
‘Of course not. That would not be the best way to begin a new alliance,’ Nathair grinned.
Voices and footsteps rang behind them. King Aquilus strode past the court, Deinon and two eagle-guards behind him.
Nathair watched them for a moment, then followed, signalling for Veradis to accompany him. They caught up at the stables, where Deinon was mounting a horse, as were the two eagle-guards. With a brief farewell the Vin Thalun rode away, the scroll-case strapped safely inside a saddlebag. The eagle-guards fell in behind the corsair and rode with him from the fortress.
‘Walk with me,’ Aquilus said to his son. He strode away, Nathair and Veradis following.
They walked in silence a while, Aquilus leading them until they stood upon the battlements, looking out across the lake and plains beyond. Deinon and his escort were pinpricks in the distance, now. ‘Why the
warrior escort, Father?’ Nathair asked. ‘It is a simple enough journey to the coast.’
‘They are to make sure he reaches the coast, Nathair, that he does not linger, or take any detours. I do not trust him. I do not trust them.
‘For generations the Vin Thalun have raided our coasts, along with the coasts of our neighbours. And now, suddenly, they want to make peace, form an alliance, and with us only. Why not Tarbesh, or Carnutan? Why Tenebral? Meical thinks the timing of this is more than coincidence. I agree with him.’
Nathair’s face clouded. ‘Counsellor Meical.’ He snorted. ‘I don’t trust the Vin Thalun either, Father. But they are useful, that is beyond doubt. We must be wary, that is all.’
‘Aye, son. You must bait a trap well to catch your prey. I would know what the Vin Thalun seek to achieve. This seems the best way to do that.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘You have done well, but these are dangerous times. War is coming, and we must be vigilant . . .’
War, Veradis thought. He was still tracking the departing Vin Thalun when he saw a large group of horsemen on the road, riding towards the fortress. ‘Who are they?’ he said.
The three of them stared in silence until the approaching horsemen were almost at the gates. They were a party of forty or fifty warriors, carrying a banner that Veradis had never seen before, a sickle moon in a star-filled sky.
‘So it begins,’ Aquilus said quietly. ‘They carry the banner of Tarbesh. I believe it is Rahim, Tarbesh’s King. The first to answer my call to council.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CORBAN
‘Where do you think he’s from, Mam?’ Cywen asked. Corban was picking at a bowl of porridge, stirring a spoonful of honey into swirling shapes. Gwenith frowned at Thannon absently as she sat in front of the hearth, toasting bread on a long fork.
Gwenith sighed. ‘I don’t know, though doubtless you don’t believe me, because if you’ve asked me once you’ve asked me five score times.’
‘Someone must know,’ said Cywen despairingly. ‘Da?’
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Thannon over a mouthful of honey-cake.
‘A white eagle on the shield. That’s what you said, Ban, wasn’t it.’
‘Aye.’
‘Who’s sign is that?’
‘We’ll eat in the feast-hall tonight. Maybe Brenin will announce who his visitor is over the evening meal,’ said Gwenith, sliding another thick piece of toasted bread onto a plate in front of everybody. Belying his size, Thannon snatched it first, and smiled to himself as he spread a thick scoop of butter on it. Cywen was silent, her nose crinkling in that familiar way when she was thinking.
‘You’re probably right, but that’s ages away.’
‘Patience, lass,’ said Thannon, leaning contentedly back in his chair, rubbing his belly. Corban frowned. That was one phrase that he really found objectionable, as it usually meant shut up, or let’s change the subject. By the look on Cywen’s face she was thinking something similar.
‘C’mon, lad, let’s get the fire lit. More scythes to make today.’
Corban grimaced. His shoulder was aching from yesterday’s hard work, and a particularly painful blister was throbbing in the crease where his thumb met his hand.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ Cywen said, ‘Gar told me he needs to speak to you today, Ban. I’m going straight to his stables – walk with me, eh, go to the forge after? If that is all right with you, Da.’
‘Aye, that’d be fine. I’ll see you after, Ban,’ said Thannon, standing and brushing crumbs from his tunic. He strode from the kitchen, his hound Buddai following. Corban and Cywen left soon after, leaving their mother still sitting by the fire, staring into the crackling flames in the hearth.
‘What does Gar want?’ Corban asked Cywen. He was back on speaking terms with her now. The horror of Dylan’s death had at least caused him to reassess the gravity of Cywen’s impulsive crime.
‘I don’t know. I did ask, but he wouldn’t tell me. He can be very close-mouthed sometimes.’
‘Huh,’ Corban grunted in agreement.
The stables were a massive building of wood and thatch. The giant Benothi had of course not ridden horses, and so had not built stables, thus Ard had had to build his own amongst the stone buildings of the old fortress.
They found stablemaster Gar in the paddocks near the stables with the roan colt that Cywen had bought at the Spring Fair. He had the colt’s foreleg balanced across his knee and was applying some kind of salve, digging it out of a pot with his fingertips, plastering it liberally on the cut where Cywen had removed the thorn. Corban and Cywen stood quietly by while he finished bandaging the hoof, Corban wrinkling his nose at the smell of the salve.
‘He’s doing well,’ Gar said, patting the roan’s neck.
‘Cywen said you wanted to see me.’ Corban said.
‘That’s right.’ Gar looked pointedly at Cywen. She frowned and didn’t look up, picking instead at a burr in the colt’s mane. The silence stretched for long, uncomfortable moments, then a voice called Cywen’s name.
Edana was walking quickly towards them, a smile on her face, a warrior striding close behind her.
‘Hello, Cywen, Gar, Corban.’ The Princess smiled in turn at them. ‘I was hoping to find you here,’ she said to Cywen. ‘If you have the time, I was wondering if you might like to join me on a ride.’
Cywen grinned. ‘I’d like to very much, but Gar has not told me what my morning chores are yet.’ She looked at her feet.
The stablemaster gave a rare smile of his own. ‘Ride with the Princess,’ he said. ‘Please.’
Cywen wrapped her arms around Gar, planting a kiss on his cheek, then she and Edana set off towards the stables, the warrior with Edana taking long strides to keep up with them.
‘How are you, Ban?’ said Gar.
‘Well enough,’ Corban said with a shrug, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, looking at the turf.
There was a long silence. Corban eventually raised his eyes, meeting Gar’s gaze. ‘How am I supposed to be? My friend is dead. Dylan was murdered.’ He sighed. ‘I am many things, Gar: angry, sad. Sometimes I even forget about what has happened and feel happy, for a time. That is the worst.’
‘Have you seen that young bully Rafe since the Spring Fair?’
‘Only from a distance. It doesn’t seem as important now.’
Gar grunted. ‘That is good. But it will not go away. My offer still stands – do you remember?’
‘Yes.’
Cywen, Edana and the warrior rode out of the stable doors.
‘Do you still wish to meet?’ the stablemaster asked, quietly.
In truth Corban had all but forgotten Gar’s offer of teaching him, but memories of Rafe came vividly back.
‘Aye, I do.’
‘Then meet me here, tomorrow morning. If you are not here when the sun touches the peaks of the cliffs I will know you’ve changed your mind. We’ll not speak of it again.’
Without another word Gar limped towards the stables.
Corban had never seen the feast-hall so full. All were welcome at the King’s table, but in reality most of the smaller holds within the fortress, such as Thannon’s, took their evening meals in their own homes. Not tonight, though. Conversation thrummed around the room as Corban sat on a bench, squashed between his da and his sister. A door at the rear of the chamber opened; the murmur of voices in the hall faltered. Brenin swept in, Ardan’s King stern-faced, accompanied by the eagle-messenger.
Brenin made his way to the firepit and cut the first slice of meat to begin the meal.
All became noise again as the rest of the hall set about eating.
Corban washed his food down with a mug of ale, scowling when he saw Rafe standing behind Evnis.
Brenin pushed his half-filled trencher back and stood, all eyes turning to him.
‘On the morrow I must leave Ardan, for a time,’ he said.
Silence.
‘A messenger has come from Tenebral,’ he continued, gesturin
g to the man sitting at his side.
‘Aquilus, King of Tenebral, High King of the Banished Lands, has called a kings’ council.’
Gasps around the hall now.
‘This is the first time this has happened since the Exiles were washed up on the shores of these Banished Lands, over a thousand years ago. I must be there. I leave Alona in my stead. She will rule in my place until I return.’
‘What about Darol and his slaughtered family?’ a voice cried out, faceless in the crowd. Brenin nodded slowly. ‘I have not forgotten my oath. Pendathran will take a warband into the Baglun Forest. He will not return until he has caught those responsible. Alive, I hope, so that they may face my judgement when I return.’
Pendathran thumped the table with his fist, trenchers and cups leaping into the air.
‘May the Ben-Elim protect you while I am away,’ Brenin said, then he turned and left the chamber.
Noise erupted around the room as the door closed, everyone in the hall talking at once.
Corban lay in his bed, fingers laced behind his head as he stared at the roof, watching shadows flicker across it cast by torchlight from the hall. The muted sound of conversation drifted into his room, his mam and da talking in the kitchen. He snorted. They had been annoyingly silent when he and Cywen had wanted to talk about Brenin’s announcement, but since he and his sister had been bustled off to their beds the two had not seemed to stop talking.
His mam paid special attention to teaching him and Cywen their histories, as far back as the Scourging, and he had recognized the name of Tenebral as soon as Brenin had mentioned it, a hot country far to the south and east, where men wore sandals and skirts, not boots and breeches. He snorted at the thought of it. Tenebral. Just the sound of it had him excited, somehow. He sighed. He could not sleep, although he had been lying here a long while.
A soft tapping filtered into his room, the latch of the kitchen door turning, a draught suddenly blowing around him. Footsteps and then the door clicked shut. He held his breath to hear better, but there was only silence, then the clinking of mugs and the scrape of chairs. Silence again.