by John Gwynne
‘Am I the worst swordsman that has ever lived?’ Dath muttered as Corban hoisted him off the ground.
‘I’ve been teaching Cy for a while, now,’ Corban said. ‘Since before you set foot in the Field. And she’s better than most our age.’
‘Humph,’ Dath grunted, rubbing his knee.
It probably didn’t soothe his friend’s battered ego, but it was the truth. Cywen learned quickly, her balance was good and she was fast: traits that were the bedrock for any swordsman, as Gar had told him many, many times.
‘Come on, Dath. I might let you win next time,’ Cywen said, grinning. He scowled and retrieved his practice stick.
‘Don’t gloat,’ Corban said to his sister. ‘It’s not the way.’
Cywen rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him.
‘Be polite,’ he said, ‘or I won’t teach you any more. Mind, you could always ask Ronan for lessons.’ He had seen the glances between Cywen and Ronan, how she had watched the red-haired warrior ride out through Stonegate with Pendathran’s warband, oblivious to all else. He grinned to see her blush.
She scowled at him, selected a new stick from their collection, then set her feet for another attack.
‘If he comes back alive from the Darkwood,’ Dath said.
Cywen lunged forwards and whacked his head.
‘Ouch. What was that for?’
‘Wait,’ Corban said, ‘prepare yourselves. And no cheating.’ He walked away, stopping beside Storm, who lay spread on the grass, eyes fixed firmly on the chickens scratching at the ground on the far side of the garden. Corban sat down, and leaned into her. He took a deep breath, filling himself with the scents of the garden: flowers, grass, earth, fur, all mingled.
‘Come on, then, Cy,’ Dath said. ‘Scared?’
Corban looked up, saw his sister staring at him, her expression unreadable. She had been doing that a lot, lately. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but instead just frowned.
‘’Course not,’ she said to Dath and launched herself at him.
Corban watched as Rafe drew his arm back, held his breath, sighted along his spear’s edge, then let fly.
The spear arced through the air, a black blur in a clear blue sky, then thudded into the straw-padded target.
‘Six,’ Tull called in his deep, booming voice.
Rafe was taking his warrior tests in the Rowan Field. Many were paying it no attention, continuing with their training as always, although a small crowd had stopped to watch. Corban was one of them.
One more hit and Rafe would have completed the first part of the tests, and earned his spear. Helfach’s son strode to the target, jerked his spear loose and turned on his heel, face drawn. He counted off two score paces, turned, sighted, let fly again.
‘Seven,’ boomed Tull.
‘Huh,’ grunted Dath quietly. ‘I was hoping he’d miss.’
‘Aye,’ muttered Corban.
They were standing with a small group of lads, those whose weapons-masters had accompanied Pendathran to the Darkwood. All were watching Rafe enviously.
The huntsman’s son smiled as he pulled his spear from the target and turned to Tull, who was striding towards him, holding out a battered shield. Rafe’s smile faded.
‘The running mount next,’ Dath whispered.
As Rafe hefted his shield, adjusting his grip, Tull turned and waved to Gar, who was standing some way off, holding the reins of a tall dun mare. Rafe closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, then nodded.
Gar clicked his tongue, set the mare into a trot and let go of the reins. He said something and the mare broke into a canter, straight towards Rafe.
He started running, pacing himself to match the mare as she reached him. For a moment they were moving side by side, then Rafe put on a burst of speed, angled closer to the horse and reached for its dark mane with his free hand, shield and spear clutched tight in the other. He gripped a handful of horsehair and launched himself into the air, legs seeking purchase on the soft hide saddle. For a moment Rafe wobbled on the horse’s back and Corban thought he was going to fall. Then he straightened and found the mare’s reins, eyes searching the crowd for his da as he punched his shield and spear into the air.
Helfach was standing alone, a fierce pride etched on his face. He raised his arm as his son looked to him, and clenched his fist.
Few of Helfach’s comrades were left in Dun Carreg, as most of Evnis’ hold had ridden out with Pendathran’s warband to help clear the Darkwood of brigands. Due to the dangers of travelling through the forest, Brenin had forbidden the handbinding of Evnis’ niece to Uthan, so Evnis hoped he and his warriors could help speed this clearance. The brothers Gethin and Evnis were none too pleased about this delay, according to Edana.
So Helfach stood alone in the Rowan Field, watching his son take the tests of a warrior. From the look on his face, though, he would not have known if he were in the midst of battle. His eyes were fixed on his son as Rafe grinned fiercely and drew the dun to a stop, turf spraying around its hooves.
Others watching cheered, banged weapons on shields, and Corban found himself joining in. Although he despised Rafe, there was something special about this moment, almost sacred.
Corban looked about, saw the hulking frame of Farrell standing on the edge of their group. He had seen the blacksmith’s apprentice a few times since that day with Rafe, but had felt uncomfortable every time, had avoided his eyes, even pretended not to see him.
He took a deep breath and sidled through the crowd until he stood next to Farrell.
‘One day we’ll be doing that,’ Corban said, looking up at Farrell, who stood about a head taller than him.
Farrell regarded him a moment. ‘Aye,’ he grunted, then turned back to watch Rafe.
They stood in silence for a while, watching Rafe dismount, move on to test his skill with a sword against Tull. Corban cleared his throat.
‘I am sorry,’ he said awkwardly. Farrell looked down at him again, but said nothing. Corban felt his neck begin to flush. ‘I meant no insult,’ he said. ‘That day with Rafe. I have been the subject of his attention, before. It just made me angry, seeing him do it to someone else.’ He stopped.
The big lad was still looking down at him. Slowly he nodded, an acknowledgement.
The sound of sparring pulled their attention back to Rafe. He was attacking Tull, Brenin’s champion standing with feet planted, fending off Rafe’s slightly frantic attack.
Tull was taking the huntsman’s son through all of the forms, testing that he knew all that an unblooded warrior should. The conflict lasted a while, Rafe circling the big man, lunging, slashing, feinting with his practice sword.
Part-way through, Tull halted Rafe, who was then handed a shield. He hefted it a moment, then the sparring began again, this time Tull pressing forwards, probing Rafe’s defences.
Eventually Tull held a hand up. ‘It is done,’ he rumbled, beckoning to Helfach.
Rafe’s father stepped forward, carrying a sheathed sword. He stood before Rafe, who sank to one knee.
‘Rafe ben Helfach,’ Tull boomed. ‘You came to the Field a boy, you are leaving it a man, a warrior. Now rise, take your sword, and hold as tight to truth and courage as you do your blade’s hilt. Take strength from all three through your Long Night: truth, courage and blade.’
Rafe stood, facing his father, Helfach holding the sword by the scabbard, hilt offered to his son. Rafe gripped it, slid the blade free and held it high.
Cheers rippled through the small crowd, loudest in a group near to Corban and Farrell where Rafe’s friends stood.
‘Now make your oath,’ Tull said, and Rafe pledged himself to Elyon, Ardan and King Brenin. He finished by cutting his palm with his sword, blood dripping onto the ground out of a clenched fist.
Helfach placed a new-made torc around his son’s neck and then embraced his son, pounding his back. Slowly the crowds began to disperse. Rafe eventually stepped out of his father’s grip and, after a few
words, strode towards his gathered friends.
‘Here, I have no more need of this,’ he said, tossing his practice sword through the air to Crain.
Corban stood and watched, remembering with sudden clarity the day Rafe had taken it from him.
Rafe glanced at him and winked. Corban turned away.
Soon after, Corban and Dath were trudging through wide stone streets, making for Corban’s home, where Cywen would be waiting for them. Storm padded a few paces behind.
‘Do you think he’ll get through his Long Night?’
‘Who?’
‘Rafe. He sits his Long Night. Tonight.’
‘Oh. Aye, why not?’
The Long Night was the final seal on the warrior tests, when a boy truly became a man. Rafe would have to leave the fortress before sunset, armed with his new sword, spear and a small sack of provisions, to spend the night on his own in the open, somewhere beyond the safety of Dun Carreg and Havan. The Long Night was supposed to be spent in vigil, unsleeping; a silent, solitary contemplation of those who had raised and guarded them through childhood.
‘I don’t know,’ Dath muttered. ‘I just wish he would fail it, somehow.’
Corban shrugged.
They reached his home, Corban throwing Dath a chunk of honey-bread still warm from the oven as they passed through the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of Cywen through the window, standing at the far end of the garden near the rose-wall.
‘Go through, Dath. I’ll just get our practice sticks.’
They had collected a stockpile of sticks that they used for their training, ones that closest resembled a sword, and Corban kept them rolled in a cloth in his chamber, so they would not rot from rain and frost. As he sped down the corridor he saw his mam and da’s door was open, sunlight streaming through an unshuttered window and pouring out into the hall. He drew to a sudden stop and peeped in. His mam was sitting on the edge of her bed, her back to him. Without thinking, he stepped into the room.
His mam jumped, surprised, and twisted round. ‘Oh, it’s you, Ban,’ she murmured, wiping her cheek.
‘What are you doing, Mam?’ he asked, peering over her shoulder. She had an old piece of fabric on her lap, alongside a piece of wood. He smiled at seeing the wood – a carving he had attempted when little more than a bairn. It was supposed to be a star, he dimly remembered, though poorly done and abandoned before it was finished. He had not known his mam had kept it.
‘Just remembering,’ his mam said with a sniff. She put an arm around his waist and hugged him.
‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing at the fabric.
‘Your sister’s first effort at stitching.’
‘It’s not very good,’ Corban observed.
‘No,’ his mam agreed.
‘But . . . why is it making you cry?’
His mam’s grip tightened. ‘Time passes too quickly.’ She rested her head against his waist, and he stroked her hair. ‘I love you,’ she whispered.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
VERADIS
‘Not long, now,’ said Calidus.
Veradis leaned forward, peering over Nathair’s shoulder. The new King was kneeling on the ground, staring intently at a large egg nestled before him in mounds of straw.
As Veradis watched, a thin crack, no wider than a hair, appeared amidst the blue and green of the shell. It spread quickly, cobwebbing out from a central point that soon became a hole, growing before his eyes.
Thick, clear fluid leaked from the hole, then the shell began to push outwards. There were a series of audible cracks and suddenly a flat muzzle was visible.
‘Help it, Nathair,’ Calidus said sharply, ‘this must be done by one man alone.’
They were in a stable box, with Valyn, a larger crowd gathered beyond the stable gate.
Nathair began pulling bits of shell away, widening the hole, his hands soon slick with the jelly-like fluid oozing from the egg. The creature within thrust its snout through the hole, its head following, getting stuck at the shoulders. It twisted about, jaws snapping, trying to free itself.
Nathair dug his fingers into the shell, around the creature’s shoulders, strained, and with a snap the egg broke and fell away, leaving a slimy, lizard-like creature standing in its ruin, about half an arm in length, from snout to tail-tip.
Veradis shivered, suddenly remembering seeing this creature’s kin charging up a hill slope towards him. It bore the same broad skull, flat muzzle and thick tail. Needle-like teeth glittered as it opened its mouth, letting out a strange, dog-like bark.
‘Feed it, quickly,’ Calidus said.
Nathair reached behind him into a wooden bucket and pulled out a handful of raw meat. He opened his palm before the muzzle of the baby draig, which was sniffing loudly, its head twitching from side to side with eyes shut tight. It caught the scent, head lunging forwards. A long tongue snaked out of its mouth, licked Nathair’s hand and the meat, and it started eating noisily.
‘Now give it the remains of its shell,’ Calidus said quietly, as the draig ate the last meat from Nathair’s hand. Obediently the King of Tenebral did so and the draig crunched up pieces of shell, Nathair guiding them into its mouth, slime hanging in thick tendrils from its jaw.
‘Ugly beast,’ Valyn whispered in Veradis’ ear. He smiled.
When the draig was done, it scratched at the straw, turned in a circle and promptly went to sleep.
‘Well done,’ Calidus said as Nathair stood and they all retreated from the stable box. ‘He will be bonded to you already, but you must continue to feed it. You and only you.’
‘Aye. Did you hear that, Valyn? No one else is to enter this box but me. I want a guard set to watch it, and word sent whenever it needs feeding.’
‘Aye, my King,’ Valyn said, dipping his head. ‘Uh, if you don’t mind me asking,’ he muttered, ‘how often, exactly, does it need feeding?’
Nathair looked to Calidus, who frowned. ‘I’m not sure.’ The Vin Thalun shrugged. ‘I would imagine the draig will let you know.’ He smiled.
‘Use your judgement, Valyn,’ Nathair said. ‘Now, fetch me a bucket of water for my hands.’
The crowd that had gathered to watch dispersed quickly, and soon Veradis was left with Nathair, Valyn, Calidus and the giant.
‘Draig-Rider,’ Nathair said, grinning. ‘Alcyon, I am in your debt.’
The giant said nothing, just dipped his head.
‘You must teach me all you know of these beasts,’ Nathair said to Calidus as they left the stables, Valyn peering over the stable door at the sleeping draig.
‘Of course,’ Calidus said.
‘Good. Very good. Now, I have a task to attend to. My mother has asked for me, and she is still fragile. I will summon you all later. There is much I need to discuss with you. It is time, I think, for a Council of War.’
Sunlight streamed through the open window, a shaft of light slicing into the gloomy room. Veradis grimaced, looking out onto the lake and plains beyond the fortress. It was a little past highsun, thin clouds high above blunting the full heat of the day. The mountains were a ragged, white-tipped outline in the distance. He sighed and turned away from the view.
The last time he had been in this room he had discovered Nathair lying in a pool of blood and Aquilus dead beneath the window.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
‘Are you well, Veradis?’ Nathair asked.
‘Me? Aye, well enough.’ He poured himself a cup of wine from a jug on the table and offered some to Lykos, who was reclining in one of a few chairs arranged around the table. The Vin Thalun held his cup out.
There was a knock on the door, and Peritus entered without waiting for an answer. Following him strode Calidus, with the hulking shape of Alcyon close behind.
‘Please, sit,’ Nathair said, waving a hand. Veradis sat next to Peritus, who acknowledged him with a twitch of his lips.
‘This is a Council of War,’ Nathair said, addressing the room. ‘Things have been difficult for me, s
ince Midwinter’s Day. The effects of my wound lingered much longer than I expected. But my father is now avenged, and I am fully recovered. It is time to start doing, rather than waiting.’
‘What do you mean by “doing”, exactly?’ asked Peritus.
‘My father set things in motion. I would see his plans, his dreams, come to fruition. He planned for aid to be given to those who stood with him in his alliance: to Rahim of Tarbesh, Romar of Isiltir, Braster of Helveth, Brenin of Ardan.’
‘Aye,’ Peritus grunted.
‘Rahim has received that aid. The others have not.’
‘When will we leave?’ Veradis said, feeling a flicker of excitement.
Nathair smiled. ‘Patience, my first-sword. There is much to arrange.’ He looked at Peritus. ‘I would not have my personal warband split between these tasks.’
‘You are King of Tenebral, now,’ Peritus said. ‘Its warriors are yours to command.’
‘Yes, and the warriors of my realm shall fight, make war, as I see fit.’
Peritus frowned.
‘You saw my wall of shields in action, did you not?’ Nathair levelled at the battlechief.
‘Aye, I did. It was efficient.’
Nathair snorted. ‘Efficient? Veradis returned less two score men than he set out with. Your warband lost over five hundred swords, and Veradis led the van.’
‘I know it well. He is a brave lad,’ Peritus added.
‘Brave. Aye, he is. But that is not what I speak of. Peritus, I do not have a limitless supply of warriors – Tenebral does not. I can ill afford to lose more, unnecessarily. If you had trained your warband in the shield wall, how many would have fallen? How many would have made the journey back with you, lived to fight another day, that are now corpses, lying cold on the bank of a river?’
Peritus mumbled something, looking away.
‘So I have made a decision.’ Nathair stood. ‘All that would hold a blade in my realm, that would call themselves a warrior of Tenebral, must learn this new way of making war. They must learn the shield wall.’ He fixed his eyes on Peritus. ‘I will brook no dissent on this matter.’