by John Gwynne
Things have worked out much better than they could have, Corban thought as he stroked his own cut lip. His mam had asked where his cloak was, but seemed satisfied, although nettled, when he told her that he had left it on Willow in his haste to make it back for the handbinding ceremony. The questions about his cuts and bruises had been explained as an accident involving Dath, himself and a tree, which was close enough to the truth. His mother’s raised eyebrow and his da’s silent stare had given him some cause for concern, but he had handed out his gifts at that point and managed to avert any further interrogation.
He sighed. Why are these ceremonies so boring? Fortunately Heb was now singing the closing benediction . . . peace surround you both, and contentment latch your door.
He held up a wide cup, the couple gripping it with their bound hands. They drank together, then the loremaster cast the cup to the ground and stamped on it.
‘It is done,’ he cried and the crowd erupted in cheering.
‘Come on,’ Dath said, nudging Corban in the ribs. ‘Let’s eat.’
Corban nodded, steering Dath towards the food bench where he had seen Dylan earlier.
Dylan smiled at him. ‘You made it back then.’
‘Aye.’
‘So what happened to your face?’ Dylan asked.
Corban shrugged, anger flickering inside as he thought of Rafe. ‘I went to the Baglun after I saw you,’ he said, wanting to change the subject.
‘Alone?’ Dylan said.
‘Aye. Alone.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that, Ban, you could have got yourself into real trouble.’
Corban snorted. I did get into real trouble. ‘I’m not a bairn,’ he snapped instead, not quite sure why. He instantly regretted his words, knew he was angry with Rafe, not Dylan. A call from Darol summoned Dylan away. Corban and Dath piled wooden trenchers high with meats and warm bread, Dath balancing a jug of gravy under his arm. Suddenly Dath froze.
Standing in front of him was a woman, filling her own trencher, silver hair spilling down her back. It was Brina, the healer.
‘What’s wrong, Dath?’ Corban muttered.
‘Her,’ hissed Dath. Brina had a reputation amongst those that lived around Dun Carreg. ‘She’s a witch.’
Brina must have heard something, for she looked straight at Dath and twisted her mouth at him.
Dath looked as if his eyes were about to burst from his skull. Turning quickly, he crashed into a solid wall of leather and iron, dropping both his plate and the jug over the warrior he collided with.
The Queen’s brother, Pendathran, loomed over the boys, scowling as gravy dripped down his tunic and onto his boots. With good reason he was often called the Bear.
‘I’m s-sorry,’ stuttered Dath as he attempted to wipe the mess off the warrior, but only succeeded in smearing it around a wider area. Pendathran gripped Dath by the wrist and growled. For a moment Corban thought his friend might actually collapse from fear, then Pendathran’s scowl cracked and he chuckled.
‘Don’t worry, boy,’ the warrior said. ‘My nephew has wed today, so I will forgive you, even though you are a blundering idiot.’
Dath smiled, mostly from relief, then Pendathran glanced over the boy’s shoulder and his good humour vanished, the scowl returning.
‘Pendathran,’ said a slightly built man, shadowed by a broader and taller young lad. Pendathran glowered at him for a moment, then turned and strode away. The slim man watched Pendathran’s back, shook his head and walked on.
‘Who was that?’ Dath asked Corban as they refilled the spilt trencher and jug.
‘You don’t know? That was Anwarth and his son, Farrell. Rumour says that Anwarth’s a coward, that he played dead when Queen Alona and Pendathran’s brother, Rhagor, was killed by brigands in the Darkwood.’
‘I thought the counsellor Evnis was blamed for that.’
‘By Alona he was, but King Brenin wouldn’t punish Evnis or Anwarth. Said he didn’t have the evidence.’
Dath puffed his cheeks out. ‘Lot of bad blood, there, then.’
‘Aye.’
Dath nodded. ‘So how did Farrell get so big? His da’s so small.’
‘Have you seen his mother? She’s a big lady. And he’s the same age as us – a bit younger, even. He is sensitive, though, or so I’ve heard. About his da’s reputation.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dath said.
‘He hits people that mention it.’
‘Oh. Remind me not to bring the subject up in earshot of him then. He looks as if he could be as big as your da soon.’
Corban chuckled. ‘His mam must feed him well.’
‘I wish I lived in the fortress,’ said Dath, ‘you get to hear all the exciting stuff.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, there’s plenty to get excited about living in the village. All those different types of fish that you get to find out about.’
Dath kicked his friend in the shins.
They found Gwenith and Thannon sitting on a cloak, picking at half-empty trenchers, sharing a jug of mead. Cywen was there as well, but Corban looked past her as he sat down.
‘I found your cloak, Ban,’ she said, passing it to him. Cywen had stitched it as she had promised. Relief was quickly replaced by annoyance, though; he did not want to feel indebted to her after what she had done.
‘Thank you,’ he managed.
‘Where’s your da?’ Corban asked Dath.
His friend pulled a sour face. ‘I’m not sure where he is, now . . .’
Corban knew what that meant. Dath didn’t want to know where his da was. He had taken the loss of his wife hard, had turned to drinking earlier and earlier.
‘Come, eat with us,’ said Gwenith, patting the ground beside her.
Dath smiled gratefully.
It was dark now, many small fires lit all across the meadow. As he looked around, Corban spotted Brenin and Alona, laughing with Marrock and Fionn. Beside Brenin, Edana appeared. She was smiling and waving at him, Corban . . .
A giddy smile stole across his face and he raised his hand, self-consciously giving a little wave back. Edana beckoned, motioning for him to join her. Shocked, he began to rise, then Cywen spoke behind him.
‘Mam, Edana’s calling me to go see her. I’ll be back later,’ she said and ran over to the King’s daughter.
Corban threw himself to the ground, his cheeks burning. When he eventually found the courage to look up again he was staring straight into the eyes of Ventos, a smile on the trader’s face, a jug of mead in his hand. His hound Talar stood beside him.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said to Corban.
‘Hello, Ventos.’ Corban introduced the trader to his mam and da, who insisted he join them.
Thannon held his hand out for Talar to sniff. The hound growled. Buddai sat up and gave a rumbling growl of his own.
‘My Buddai is not one to start a fight,’ Thannon said, ‘but he will finish it if one comes his way.’
‘Talar,’ the trader snapped and the hound’s growling stopped.
‘Ventos is from Helveth,’ said Dath.
‘That’s where Gar is from, isn’t it, Mam?’ Corban asked.
‘That’s right,’ his mam said, sharing a glance with Thannon.
Just then Gar limped out of the darkness. He patted Thannon on the shoulder, and sat down awkwardly, stretching one leg out in front of him. He frowned when he saw Ventos.
‘How’s the saddle?’ Ventos asked Gar.
‘A good fit.’
‘Hear you’re from Helveth,’ Ventos said.
‘Aye. What of it?’
‘Nothing. So am I, that’s all. This is a long way from Helveth. How did you end up here?’
Gar closed his eyes, and for a moment Corban thought the stablemaster was going to ignore the question again. Then he looked up and began to speak.
‘I lived in a village close to Forn Forest. One day the giants came raiding, burned out the whole village, killed almost everyone. I escaped, just, a
long with a handful. All my kin were dead,’ he shrugged, ‘there was nothing left to stay for, so I just kept walking. Ended up here, somehow. Brenin took me in, has been good to me.’
Thannon passed him a cup of mead. He took a long draught of it.
‘Giants, eh,’ Ventos said. ‘The Hunen are still a curse on Helveth’s arse, and getting braver of late, striking further out of Forn Forest. There is rumour of Braster, King of Helveth, raising a force to lead into the forest, to crush them once and for all.’
‘Good,’ Gar said and sipped from his cup of mead.
Corban saw Darol leading his pony harnessed up to the wain. Dylan was sitting in the back. Jumping to his feet, Corban ran over.
‘Why are you leaving so early?’ he asked Dylan, walking beside the wain.
‘Da’s tired,’ Dylan grimaced. ‘I wish we were staying, I hear Heb’s going to tell one of his tales tonight.’ He sighed. ‘Da’s in a foul mood. He won’t stay. And you still haven’t told me why you look as if you ran into a tree.’
‘I’ll come see you tomorrow,’ Corban said as the wain picked up speed. He waved as Dylan and his family faded into the darkness.
Others were leaving the field, now, drifting away into the night. Corban made his way back to the small circle of his family and sat beside his mam. Cywen had returned. He was still annoyed with her, but his mood lightened as he sat listening and laughing with the small group. He lay back, hands folded behind his head, looking up at the stars and moon in the dark blanket above, listening to the rhythmic lapping of the sea. Absently his mam reached out a hand and stroked his hair.
Some time later he heard clapping and sat up. Heb had climbed onto a table near the firepit. Groups around the meadow began to draw in closer, eager to hear one of the loremaster’s famous tales, and Corban and his family joined them.
‘What would you hear tonight?’ cried Heb.
Voices called out from amongst the crowd, but before Heb could respond, Queen Alona stepped into the light of the firepit.
‘It is tradition that Marrock should choose,’ she said, beckoning to her nephew and his bride. Heb looked enquiringly at Marrock, who gazed into the fire a while, then smiled to himself.
‘Tell us the tale of Cambros,’ he said.
‘A tale so tragic on so happy a night?’ said Heb with a raised eyebrow.
‘Any tale that tells how I came to be born in this land and so meet my bride is not a sad tale,’ he replied, looking at his wife.
‘He’s drunk already,’ a faceless voice called from the darkness, followed by a ripple of laughter.
Heb held up a hand. ‘The tale of Cambros,’ he cried, then he bowed his head and a hush fell over the meadow.
‘Our ancestors came to this land in a great fleet; the Exiles, they called themselves, banished from the Isle of Summer after a long and bloody war. They were washed ashore far south and east of here, and called this new world the Banished Lands. Sokar was our king.
‘It was not long before our ancestors discovered they were not alone, that the land was filled with giants, survivors of Elyon’s Scourging. Old hatreds run deep, and the enmity between mankind and giants had not lessened, for all the generations that had passed since the Scourging, when Elyon’s wrath had brought both men and giants close to extinction. And so the Giant Wars began, of which the tales of victory and of sadness are too great and too many to tell this night.
‘During this great war Sokar sent out his warlords. To the west he sent Cambros, the Bull, with his sons Cadlas and Ard, to fight the Benothi, those giants that dwelt even here, that built Dun Carreg.’ Heb paused, pointing at the fortress high above them. ‘The giants were defeated, pushed back, Cadlas and his warriors following them . . .’
Corban closed his eyes, picturing the tale. This story was known to him, as his mam and da were often teaching him the histories. As Corban listened, Heb spoke of the campaign that defeated the Benothi giants, forcing them to retreat ever northwards.
‘Then the giants rallied for one last battle, on the slopes of Dun Vaner,’ Heb said. ‘The Benothi, in their pride – which was ever the giants’ downfall – marched out of their stronghold of stone to meet Cambros the Bull and his warband. The battle raged for two days. The battlefield was stained black with blood, the sky darkened with the gathering crows come to glut on the dead.
‘At the end of the second day,’ Heb said, ‘as the sky grew red with the fading sun, Cambros and his shieldmen broke the lines of the Benothi and he came face to face with Ruad, their king. Alone they faced each other, their shieldmen dead and strewn on the ground around them, and alone they fought. Ruad smote Cambros with his great war-axe and rent his shield. Three times Cambros drew the blood of Ruad, but eventually his blade was shattered and he was beaten down.’
Corban heard people groan around the meadow, saw his mam wiping away tears.
‘In desperation, Cambros grabbed a branch fallen from a tree. As Ruad raised his axe Cambros gave his last strength and hammered the giant’s knee a mighty blow, smashing bone and sinew. Roaring, Ruad fell. Cambros crawled upon the giant’s chest and drove his broken sword deep into Ruad’s heart. Seeing their king’s death, the will went out of the Benothi, and the battle ended.
‘And so it was that the Benothi were broken, and fled to the north, where they dwell still. And Cambros divided the conquered lands between himself and his two sons, Ard and Cadlas, and lived in peace.’ Looking at Marrock and Fionn, Heb continued. ‘And that, Marrock ben Rhagor, is how you came to be standing in this meadow in the realm of Ardan, with Fionn handbound to you.’
Marrock bowed his head in thanks, Brenin calling for a toast, the crowd standing, roaring their approval.
Corban sat in silence a long while, thinking on the story. The conversation between his companions lasted long into the night, families around them slowly drifting back to the village or to their nearby farms and holds. Fires withered and the stars grew brighter.
A murmur of voices grew behind Corban. People were staring into the distance, west, towards Baglun Forest. Corban rose and moved closer for a better look.
A red and orange light flickered far away, rising and falling, like the flame of a candle blown in the breeze.
Gar came to stand next to him.
‘What is that?’ he asked the stablemaster.
Gar was silent a moment, then cried in a loud voice, ‘To horse, to horse!’ and broke into his limping run towards the village.
‘What is it?’ Corban called after him.
‘Darol’s stockade, boy,’ Gar shouted over his shoulder, ‘it burns!’
CHAPTER TEN
KASTELL
Kastell’s days passed pleasantly as they wound their way towards Halstat. Often Aguila would drop back down the column and ride with him and Maquin awhile, and after the first night Kastell and Maquin sat with the rest of the travellers around a warm fire. Kastell spoke little, but nevertheless enjoyed the sense of belonging, something he had forgotten in the politicking of Mikil. On their fourth day of travel, just after dawn, a rider appeared on the track ahead, riding hard towards them. It was a lone warrior dressed in the insignia of Tenebral, a realm far to the south. He refused to stop and eat with them, saying he carried an urgent message for Romar.
Early on the sixth day, one of the mercenary guards cantered back down the column, to Kastell and Maquin’s customary position.
‘Chief wants you to ride up front with him,’ the warrior said.
‘What will you both do, once we reach Halstat and this job is done?’ Aguila asked them when Kastell and Maquin joined him.
‘Head back to Mikil, I suppose,’ Kastell said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘If you are not ready to go back, then I could always find work for you, riding with my band.’
‘I don’t know,’ Kastell said, surprised. He had not really thought past Halstat, but the thought of returning to Mikil did not fill him with joy. Life on the road, life without Jael’s presence, was good. ‘Maybe
we will take you up on that offer,’ he said, glancing at Maquin.
‘I’m in no rush to go back to Mikil,’ his shieldman shrugged at him.
Their path had run parallel to Forn Forest for some days. Now it curved back, forced by a sharp-sloped spur that cut a groove towards the forest. Kastell gazed up at the mountains looking like jagged, chipped teeth against the rising sun. Legend told that this range had been formed in the ruin of Elyon’s Scourging, when the land was broken and remade. Far to the north, beyond the borders of Forn, it was said that there was league upon league of devastation, fields of ash and great rents in the land itself, chasms that had no end.
The wains followed the path as it inched closer to Forn, until Kastell could make out individual branches swaying in the wind.
Aguila pointed. ‘Once we pass that spur, the path turns away from the forest, heads straight into the mountains. We will follow the Danvius from there, as it cuts a road right through to the gates of Halstat.’
‘Good,’ Kastell said with some feeling, and both Maquin and Aguila chuckled.
As they drew closer to the mountain spur, rising sharp and jagged into the clouds high above, the road dipped into a dell skirting its base. ‘This is likely as close to Forn as we’ll ever get,’ said Maquin as the caravan began the descent into the dell. ‘Unless you join those that guard the Dal Gadrai.’
‘This is close enough for me,’ said Kastell. The Dal Gadrai was a valley cut by a river through Forn Forest, on the eastern borders of their homeland. A group of warriors, all volunteers – as none was ever sent there – patrolled the river’s edge as it wound through Forn, mostly to guard merchant ships that used the river, but also to act as a bulwark against any forest-dwellers tempted to wander into Isiltir. Only those that had killed one of the Hunen, the giant clan that dwelt still within Forn Forest, were allowed to join the Gadrai, as their troop came to be called. Warriors of the Gadrai often went on to serve as shieldmen of Romar, King of Isiltir.