by John Gwynne
Corban sighed. ‘I had hoped your words came from your fever. I would be happy to lay them aside.’
Vonn laughed, little humour in it. ‘I am sure that you would. But I, however, am not happy to lay them aside.’ He reached down and rubbed his knee. ‘My leg still aches, more in this rain, because of you.’
‘I did not cause your horse to fall upon you,’ Corban said.
‘I remember events differently.’
Corban held a hand up. ‘There is little to be gained in this bickering. King’s Justice has spoken about my wolven, so whether you agree or no, there is naught you can do. Better for all, I think, if we just put the past behind us.’
Helfach snorted. ‘Better for all. Better for you, more like,’ he spat.
Corban sucked in a deep breath, trying to master his emotions. He clasped his hands together and laced his fingers to stop them from trembling.
‘Look at him,’ Helfach continued, a sneer twisting his mouth. ‘He’s scared. He has’na got Tull, or that outlander standing at his back. My son has told me of the boy’s cowardly ways.’ He glowered at Corban. ‘Is that not right, boy?’
‘He thinks he has all the protection he needs,’ Rafe added. ‘His sister is here. She’s well practised in fighting battles for him.’
‘Shut up,’ Cywen snapped. Rafe leered at her.
‘Hush, Cy,’ said Corban. He ignored Rafe, felt the fear inside him start to shift, into something colder. He looked pointedly at Helfach. ‘You left out one of my protectors. You left out my da.’ He met Helfach’s glare with one of his own. ‘Why is that?’
Helfach blinked and looked away, obviously remembering the day in Evnis’ courtyard, when Thannon had confronted him, beaten him unconscious.
His hound, broad-chested and squat, growled, sensing a change in his master.
Storm bared her teeth, a deep rumbling response growing in her chest. Corban laid a hand on her neck, felt her hackles standing on end. He clicked his tongue and the rumbling stopped.
Suddenly Alona’s words returned to his mind, like a bell, sharp and clear. ‘If there is one incident where a subject of mine is harmed by this creature, it will be destroyed.’
He swallowed, fear again spiking within.
‘Cy,’ he said, ‘take Storm away.’
‘What? No. Why?’
‘Just do it. Please.’
She stared at him, puzzled, then nodded and walked away, calling Storm. The wolven did not move, stood motionless beside Corban, muscles tensed.
‘Go,’ said Corban, snapping his fingers and pointing. Storm turned reluctantly, and walked after Cywen.
‘Why have you done that?’ Vonn asked, frowning. Corban ignored him, watching until his sister and Storm reached the oak where the colt’s mother still stood.
‘Answer your betters, boy,’ Helfach grunted.
Corban’s mood changed then, quickly, suddenly. He turned to face them. ‘You say I am different, without my protectors here. Well, what of you? You are different too: aye, bolder. Why is that, huntsman? You are mighty brave, all three of you. Would you be the same, if my da were here, or Tull. Tell me?’ He snorted. ‘And you call me coward.’
‘I only came to tell you there will be a reckoning between us one day, when you are an age to face me,’ Vonn said, angry, but there was something else in his eyes. Shame? Helfach, though, turned slowly purple, eyes bulging, a vein in his neck throbbing.
‘How dare you?’ he snarled. ‘We may be forbidden to touch you, but what can I do about a hound turned wild? Braen.’
The hound growled, baring his teeth.
‘Helfach, what are you—’ Vonn began, but then it was too late. The hound launched itself. Corban let out a strangled cry and turned, tried to run, but the hound crashed into his back, jaws snapping. Corban sprawled forwards, fell to the ground, the hound snarling, caught up in his cloak.
‘No!’ Corban heard someone shout. Vonn? The hound was rolling in his cloak, tearing at it. Cywen yelled his name. As he rolled on the grass and scrambled backwards he glimpsed her running towards him, Storm speeding before her, then the hound was on him, scrabbling up his chest. He grappled with it, digging his fingers into the thick cords of muscle around its neck, but it broke his grip easily and sank its teeth into his arm. He screamed, wrenched away, felt droplets of blood splattering across his face. The hound lunged for his throat, jaws gaping, teeth clicking a hairsbreadth from his flesh, hot, fetid breath blasting his face, huge feet pinning him to the ground.
A roaring thunder grew, filling his ears, drowning the frenzied growls coming from the hound. He heard a wild neighing, felt a jarring, bone-crushing impact, a high-pitched whine, then suddenly the weight of the hound was gone.
Hooves thudded down around him, his colt filling his vision, rearing, forelegs lashing out. There was a sickening crunch, then the colt’s feet thumped to the ground. It stood over him, nostrils flaring, hot air shooting out in great cloudy blasts. Then Storm was there, nuzzling him, licking, standing beside the colt, between him and his attackers, crouched, snarling, long teeth bared.
He rolled over, felt Cywen’s arms around him, helping him stand. His arm was throbbing, blood pulsing from his wound in time with his pounding heart, the rain sending it in red rivulets down his sleeve.
Vonn made to approach him, but Storm snapped, snarled, and he stopped.
Helfach was kneeling in the grass, cradling his hound’s head on his lap, Rafe standing behind, frozen, staring.
‘You . . . you killed him,’ Helfach gasped, tears streaming down his cheeks.
‘No,’ Vonn said. ‘You killed him, Helfach. Come. I will help you carry him.’ He hooked an arm around Helfach as he looked at Corban. ‘I am sorry,’ he said haltingly. ‘Are you—? Your arm. You must go to Brina.’
Corban nodded, numb, and watched the three of them carry the limp corpse of the hound out of the paddock.
‘Ban, your arm,’ Cywen said, hugging him, ripping the hem of her cloak and tying it tight just below his shoulder.
‘What happened?’ Corban mumbled, feeling suddenly sick and dizzy.
‘We tried to reach you, when the hound attacked. But we were too far away, even Storm was not fast enough. Ban, it nearly killed you – could have killed you . . .’
‘What happened?’ Corban repeated, firmer.
‘Your colt, Ban. He just raced past us, from nowhere, threw himself into the hound. He killed it, Ban, defending you.’ She blew out a breath and shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen the like before. I’ve heard tales, of full-grown horses doing things like that, warhorses, but never seen, never heard of a colt doing such a thing.’
Corban nodded, walked forward unsteadily. Storm nuzzled his hand. He wrapped his good arm around the colt’s neck and laid his head against it.
‘I shall call you Shield,’ he whispered.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
VERADIS
Veradis smiled as he crested a gentle rise in the land and saw Jerolin rise out of the plain before him, its central tower of black rock pointing to the sky like a scorched, accusatory finger.
Small figures were busy on the lake shore, beneath the fortress, the day’s catch being unloaded from scores of fisher-boats. The sky was clear, a deepening blue as dusk settled around them.
He looked over his shoulder, saw the warband spread across the slope and plain behind him; he took a deep breath of the cold, sharp air.
‘It is good to be back, eh?’ he said to Nathair and Rauca, who were sitting their horses beside him. Rauca gripped Nathair’s standard in leather-gauntleted hands, the eagle pennant snapping in the wind.
‘Good to be back,’ Nathair echoed, shifting his weight in his saddle.
‘Aye,’ agreed Rauca, a grin splitting his face and short dark beard.
Without another word, Nathair spurred his horse on, cantering down the gentle slope. Veradis and Rauca followed him, the warband spilling over the rise behind them.
The journey home had been quick an
d uneventful. The memory of finding hidden Telassar, of Calidus’ revelation, of the Jehar warriors swearing their allegiance to Nathair was all blurred, somehow. Since that moment everything seemed to have changed, to have fallen into place. Seeing Calidus unveiled had sealed everything, although he had reverted to the bowed old man before they had left Sumur’s chambers, swearing them all to secrecy. Veradis knew now, beyond all doubt, that Nathair was Elyon’s chosen, that he rode with a man who would change the world. Just the thought made his heart swell with pride. They had ridden from Telassar with Sumur’s promises ringing in their ears, that he would gather the Jehar’s might, prepare them for war and then march for Jerolin.
Within a ten-night of leaving Telassar, Veradis and Nathair had rejoined their warband, finding them camped in a bay on the coast. Lykos had been there too, waiting with a fleet to ferry them back to Tenebral.
Their passage home had been swift, although the weather was changing for the worse, so enfeebled warriors clustered the ships’ rails. Veradis had walked amongst them, thanking Elyon for his upbringing on the coast and berating his giantkillers for letting the weather cow them where giants and draigs had not.
Alcyon had left them before they had boarded Lykos’ ships, bowing to Nathair and nodding a farewell to Veradis. It was strange; he felt that he almost missed the giant’s company.
He snorted to himself, laughing quietly.
Lykos had returned them to the same quiet bay where they had first met him. Since then they had ridden another ten-night, a mounting excitement and desire for speed amongst the warband. Now they were back, Nathair ordered horns to be blown, announcing his return, an answering blast echoing from Jerolin’s battlements. Veradis felt his back straighten when they entered the crowded courtyard to cheering, a smile spilling across his face. This was something indeed.
Valyn was at the stables, armed with a host of stablehands to help warriors tend their mounts. He grinned at Veradis and pulled him into an embrace.
‘I’m glad you’re back, lad, and in one piece.’ The stablemaster stepped back. ‘You’ve some tales to tell, I’d wager.’
Veradis just nodded, smiling broadly. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the stablemaster.
‘Well, enough of that,’ Valyn said, ‘I’ve work that needs tending. We’ll talk, eh? Later?’
‘Aye,’ said Veradis. ‘Later.’
Veradis set to, stripping down his horse’s saddle and tack, but he was only part-way done when a hand gripped his shoulder.
‘Come,’ Nathair said to him, ‘I am eager to see my father, and I would have you beside me.’
Veradis had found a stable boy to tend his horse and followed Nathair to the keep. As Nathair and Veradis crossed the empty feast-hall, footsteps echoing, a door opened. King Aquilus hurried through, Fidele just behind.
The King saw Nathair, crossed the room in several strides, almost running, and grabbed Nathair in a crushing embrace. Queen Fidele joined them, arms about them both, smiling, stroking Nathair’s face, his hair, tears glistening on her cheeks.
Veradis looked away, feeling as if he were trespassing. He thought of his own father and felt a stab of something, deep inside. Jealousy? The feeling shifted rapidly into shame, edged with anger. He stared at the stone floor.
Eventually the three figures parted, Nathair’s cheeks colouring, a hesitant smile flitting across his face.
‘I am back,’ he said.
‘So we see,’ Aquilus laughed. ‘Come. You must have much to tell.’
Nathair nodded, still smiling.
Soon they were seated in a room in the tower, a platter of food and a jug of wine on the table they were sitting around.
‘Rahim sends his greetings. And his thanks,’ Nathair said.
‘I am sure he does,’ said Aquilus, looking at Nathair proudly. ‘How many were in this giant warband?’ he asked, not for the first time.
‘Four score,’ Veradis mumbled, his mouth full of salty cheese.
‘And they were mounted. On draigs?’
‘Aye,’ Nathair said. ‘Veradis drew them onto a valley slope, weathered the brunt of their attack. You should have seen him, Father,’ the Prince added, squeezing Veradis’ shoulder. ‘He has earned his title, thrice over.’
Veradis coloured under the approving looks of King Aquilus and his Queen.
‘I charged them from behind,’ Nathair continued. ‘Veradis was the anvil, I the hammer.’ He slammed his hand against the table with a crack, making his cup of wine jump.
Aquilus shook his head. ‘Son, if I had known how many – and draigs. I never would have sent you.’
‘No, you would not,’ Fidele said, scowling at her husband.
‘You have surpassed my hopes,’ Aquilus continued. ‘Well, the plan was for you and your warband to cut your teeth. I think we have accomplished that.’
‘Ah, you remind me, Father,’ Nathair said, reaching into a pouch at his belt. He held his hand out. A long, curved tooth sat there, longer than his palm was wide. ‘It is a draig’s tooth. A memento, Father, of the first campaign that you entrusted me to lead.’
Veradis’ hand crept to his hip, a finger tracing the tooth that Nathair had given to him, set now in his sword hilt. The prince had given them to all of his warriors, the night before they had boarded Lykos’ ships and left Tarbesh. Somehow it bound them even tighter to Nathair – if that was possible – filling them with a fierce pride. At the same time Nathair had sworn them all to secrecy concerning the Vin Thalun fleet.
Aquilus took the tooth, holding it up before him. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Enter,’ Fidele called. Peritus swept into the room, smiling at them all. Aquilus gestured to a chair, and the battlechief sat. Veradis returned the greeting, but less warmly, remembering the doubts Peritus had voiced the day he had viewed the warband training. Nathair was colder still.
The King told Peritus of the campaign, the battlechief nodding and grunting as the tale unfolded.
‘So, you see,’ Aquilus said, ‘your doubts were unfounded.’
‘Aye. And I am glad they were,’ Peritus said. ‘I was only concerned for your safety,’ he said to the Prince.
Nathair snorted. ‘When is battle ever safe?’
‘True enough. We can never know what may befall us in battle. But there are sureties that we can seek. That is Elyon’s gift to us, no? Intellect. Choice. But, regardless, I have been proved wrong, and am glad about it.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ Nathair murmured. ‘The man has not been born who is right all of the time.’
Laughter rippled around the room.
‘I am surprised, though, at your speed. I had not reckoned on your return for at least another turn of the moon.’
‘I was eager to return,’ Nathair said. ‘I drove my men hard, perhaps harder than I should have, but they are none the worse for it.’ He stood and groaned, stretching. ‘I am for some hot water,’ he said. ‘Strip this dirt from my skin.’
‘Of course,’ said Aquilus.
‘Come, Veradis,’ said Nathair, turning and walking to the door. Veradis followed him.
‘Nathair,’ Aquilus called out; the Prince stopped, turned his head. ‘I am most proud of you.’
Nathair stood there, eyes closed a moment, savouring this praise. ‘Thank you, Father,’ he said, then left.
Veradis walked quickly away from the weapons court, fastening his cloak around his shoulders as he went. A thin layer of snow now crunched under his boots and he pulled the cloak tighter. He was still sweating, blood pumping and various aches and pains only now making themselves known. He took a deep breath, slowly calming after his exertions on the court and touched a knuckle to his cheek, the skin swollen.
He ducked through the doors to the keep and slammed them shut on the snow, a blast of hot air hitting him as he walked into the feast-hall, carrying the smell of roasting meat, gravy, wine, sweat. It was always busy of late, the fortress fill
ing with people gathering for Midwinter’s Day. Where had the time gone? Three turns of the moon had passed already since Tarbesh; only six more nights until Midwinter and all that brought with it.
Quickly he filled a plate and found a space to sit alone with his back to the entrance.
The room grew noisier as more people came in. He heard footsteps, felt a slap on the shoulder and Rauca dropped onto the bench opposite him.
‘There’s a crowd still standing in the weapons court, freezing their knackers off, waiting to congratulate you,’ the warrior said.
‘Huh,’ grunted Veradis.
‘Why’d you sneak off?’
‘I was cold, hungry, didn’t see a reason to stay.’
‘No reason to stay,’ said Rauca, leaning forward. ‘You just bested Armatus, man. I couldn’t think of a better reason to stay. He’s been weapons-master since I was twelve years old, and unbeaten long before that.’
Veradis shrugged. ‘He’s past his best, and this cold slows and stiffens old bones.’
Rauca shook his head. ‘Past his best or no, there’s no one else in all of Tenebral that’s able to put a sword-tip to the man’s throat. You should be enjoying your newfound glory, not looking like you’re about to start weeping into your plate.’
‘Aye,’ Veradis sighed. Rauca was right, he knew, but something about the whole contest had tasted rotten.
Since Nathair’s return to Jerolin there had been a growing, unvoiced tension between the Prince and Peritus, and this had spilt into their warbands. Armatus, the weapons-master, was a childhood friend of Peritus and had spoken out a few times against Nathair’s new methods of training. Nathair had steered today’s sparring contest between Armatus and Veradis, and although there had been no official recognition of the bout, almost every warrior within a five-league ride of the fortress had tried to view it.
Veradis would do anything for Nathair, give his own life, but there was something about this that he had not liked. He had felt manoeuvred. And, besides, he liked Armatus, and had felt little joy in beating him.