by John Gwynne
‘Drink this,’ a voice said.
Something was shoved into his hand – a bowl – and to his surprise he found that he was propped up against the trunk of a tree, a rope tying him to the wide bole.
Not that I can get up and run away.
Two giants were crouched before him, both of them cloaked in the twilight gloom of Forn. One of them was the blond giant he’d talked to earlier. Beyond them he heard the familiar sound of camp-making, shadowy figures moving at the edge of his sight.
‘Drink,’ the voice said, a huge hand wrapping around his and lifting the bowl to his lips. Corban sniffed it, wrinkling his nose at the familiar earthy smell.
‘Brot,’ he muttered.
‘You know brot?’ the voice said in surprise.
Corban looked into the gloom and saw that one of the dark figures before him was a woman, her face slabs of bone highlighted by the dim gleam of moonlight.
‘Aye,’ Corban mumbled. He sniffed suspiciously at the bowl.
‘Go on,’ the voice said. ‘If we wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.’
That’s a fair point. Why haven’t they killed me?
He took a sip, the brot closer to porridge in consistency than fluid. After swallowing, he felt an after-taste, something bitter.
‘It’s not the same,’ Corban said.
‘As what?’
‘As what Balur gave me.’
There was a pause, the giants shared a look.
‘Balur One-Eye?’ the blond-haired male asked.
‘Aye,’ Corban said. ‘There’s something else in this. Goldenseal?’
Another silence.
‘Aye,’ the female giant said. She almost sounded pleased.
Goldenseal to fight infection, Brina always said. The worse it tastes, the better it is for you. I never quite believed that bit.
Another figure loomed out of the shadows.
‘Bogadh,’ the giant rumbled and his captors parted to let this one crouch down before Corban.
‘Eadrom,’ the new arrival said, and a moment later Corban heard flint being struck, sparks catching on a torch and light flared.
Corban blinked, looked away a moment.
‘Look at me,’ the new voice said, a grating rumble, stern and grim. A hand gripped Corban’s face and lifted his chin. He was looking at another blond giant, a thick warrior braid in his hair, threaded with red-gold wire. This one had a wide bandage wrapped around his shoulder and chest, a dark stain at its centre.
‘You are Ildaer, King of the Jotun,’ Corban said.
‘Warlord, not king,’ Ildaer murmured. ‘But who are you?’
‘Why am I still breathing?’ Corban asked. ‘I slew your bear, three of your kin in the glade.’ With a lot of help from Storm. ‘Why would you keep me alive?’
‘You do not question me,’ Ildaer said, then with one thick finger prodded Corban in his ribs.
Corban suppressed a scream; it came out as a gurgled hiss.
Ildaer’s hand brushed over Corban’s torn surcoat, rested on the sigil of the Bright Star stitched upon his chest, felt his mail shirt, rolling links between his fingers. He grunted approvingly, then moved on to Corban’s arm-ring, wrapped around his bicep. It had been gifted to him in Drassil, a spiral of dark iron veined with a silver thread, a snarling wolven head at each end. It was a thing of beauty, more so because it reminded Corban of the night back in Drassil when the whole of the warband had pledged their loyalty to him and he had sworn his oath to them in return. He felt a lump rise in his throat and blinked away tears.
‘Who are you?’ Ildaer asked him again.
‘No one,’ Corban grunted, feeling a surge of bitter despair at that admission. Certainly not the Bright Star everyone believed I was. I even came to believe it. I am the greatest of fools; that is who I am.
‘There is giant skill in this,’ Ildaer observed, fingers running over the spiral of the arm-ring. ‘At Gramm’s hold warriors stood about you. You commanded and others listened. And yesterday, men came to save you.’ He moved closer, face almost touching Corban’s, his small dark eyes staring. ‘I do not think you are no one. Start with your name. Tell me that.’
Corban clamped his lips together.
‘I could hurt you,’ Ildaer said matter-of-factly, hand opening and resting lightly upon Corban’s injured knee. Corban sucked in a breath but said nothing.
‘Your name?’ Ildaer said, flexing his fingers.
‘Something for something,’ Corban said, as calmly as he could manage.
Ildaer stared at him a long, sweat-filled moment. Then a smile cracked the slabs of the giant’s face, his moustache twitching.
‘You have stones, little man, I’ll give you that. Bargaining with me, at a time like this? Very well – something for something. Now, what is your name?’
‘I am Corban ben Thannon,’ Corban said, lifting his chin high. That is who I am. My father’s son, no more, no less. At that moment he had never missed his da more fiercely, nor felt so proud of his memory.
Ildaer nodded thoughtfully, as if he were turning the name over in his mind.
‘All right, then,’ the giant finally said. ‘Ask your question.’
‘Where are you taking me?’ Corban asked.
‘Away from Drassil and this cursed forest,’ Ildaer said, looking up at the shifting shadows and impenetrable trees around them.
‘Where?’ Corban repeated.
‘A place you know well enough. We are going to Gramm’s hold.’
CHAPTER NINE
FIDELE
Fidele walked the lines of their camp, nodding to guards, offering a word of encouragement here and there. Trees loomed, towering colossi that transformed daylight into perpetual twilight. Within this shadowed world the warband of Ripa camped: close to a thousand men, five hundred leagues from home.
They must wonder why they are here, so far from home, caught up in a war they hardly understand. A war that I barely understand.
What she did know, though, was that her son was at the heart of it.
Nathair.
At the thought of him a tide of emotions swept through her. Shock. He is allied to the Kadoshim. My own son. How could he choose to be part of such a great evil? Anger, that he had not chosen differently, that he had not stood for what was right. He is naive, has trusted flattering words and deceptive tongues, and walked the wrong path. Betrayal, that he had chosen Calidus over her, a point made so clear during her trial. Regret, that she had not seen the course he was treading earlier and done something to help him, while there had still been time. Sadness. No, something far deeper than that, more akin to grief. It almost felt as if he had died, that she had lost him forever.
Not forever. There is still hope for him. There must be . . .
Hatred. For Calidus, the catalyst and centre of her fury. A Kadoshim demon made flesh, his will set on corrupting Nathair and bending him to his purposes.
Threaded between and amongst all those emotions was one more. Love. A mother’s love for her son, built upon the vulnerable child she had nursed at her breast, whom she had nurtured and protected, a fierce love that had always seen the best in him, that believed in his ability, his strength and intellect, believed in him. A love that still fuelled a hope that he would eventually see the wrong he had done, that he would turn back from the dark path he was being led down.
At the perimeter of their camp two guards with the eagle of Tenebral upon their breastplates saluted her. Men always stood together in this forest, never alone. The creatures of Forn were better defended against that way.
Fidele stood and stared out into the shadows of the forest.
‘We must leave,’ a voice said beside her, making her jump. Alben, the white-haired healer, had followed her, his footsteps little more than a whisper upon the forest floor. A bandage was wrapped around a wound between his shoulder and chest that the traitorous Ektor had given in the dungeons beneath Brikan. Quiet, shy Ektor, brother to Krelis and Veradis. More accustomed to
holding a scroll than a sword. And yet he had betrayed them and slain one of her most trusted companions, Peritus.
It had been little more than a ten-night ago and her grief was still fresh, but Alben seemed to have recovered well.
He is a remarkable man. And a mysterious one. A warrior and a healer, both, but so much more than that. Friend to Meical, part of a secret group that has been waiting for these days, preparing . . .
‘We must leave,’ Alben repeated. ‘Time is against us.’
‘No,’ she replied, an automatic response. She drew in a long breath, composing herself. ‘This warband will not just march away from Krelis. They are men of Ripa.’
‘They’ll do what you order them to do,’ Alben said quietly. ‘You are their Queen.’
I don’t want to be queen. So many years I have put duty first. She looked at Alben, saw him studying her face. He knows why I do not wish to leave.
‘I’ll not leave without Maquin.’
The warrior’s face filled her mind, beaten and scarred. Proud. Fierce. She felt her spirits lift at the thought of him, remembered sitting at his side in the tower at Ripa, when he had opened his eyes after lying on the brink of death for so long. He had told her that he’d stood upon the bridge of swords, that one of the Ben-Elim had given him a choice.
To cross over or go back, he’d told her.
Why did you come back, then? she had asked him.
Three reasons. Three people. Jael. Lykos. You. He had paused and looked up into her eyes. Two for vengeance. One for love.
Her lips twitched in a smile at the memory of it.
Alben’s eyes creased with worry, and perhaps compassion. ‘You’ll lose this war for one man?’
So many answers flashed through her mind, most of them convincing in their own right, but she knew they were not the truth.
‘It will not come to that,’ she snapped.
Alben frowned. ‘You cannot choose one man over a nation,’ he said. ‘More than that, the whole of the Banished Lands. We are in the God-War. We cannot just walk away from this, it will consume the Banished Lands, and when it is done those who stand against Asroth will either be victorious or they will be dead. There is nothing in between. It is war. Sacrifices must be made.’
‘I am familiar with sacrifice,’ she said coldly, ‘but I’ll not be a pawn to an absent god. I’ll fight for my freedom, for my people, and follow my conscience. Yes, I fear for Maquin and I long for his return, but more than that, this warband is stronger with him, and with Krelis. And Veradis, if they managed to find him. We must give them more time.’
‘They may never return, my lady,’ Alben said quietly, voicing her deepest fear.
Doubt and worry gnawed at her. She remembered standing on the riverbank beyond Brikan’s tower as the warband escaped deeper into the forest, camouflaged, amongst Nathair’s warriors. Maquin, Alben and Krelis had stood with her, looking back at the tower, thinking of Veradis and what he had vowed to do: to slay Calidus, one of the Kadoshim. They had all seen the explosion of fire light up the tower window and moments later seen the forms leap from it, hurtling into the river. It was Veradis, they were sure. Maquin and Krelis had made to rush after him then and there, but Alben had stayed them a while, calling out names and gathering a score of men to go with them. Maquin had crushed her in a tight embrace.
Stay, she had whispered in his ear.
Veradis is my friend, Maquin had replied. And he freed us. She’d held his gaze a long, heartfelt moment, and then he was gone, running into the night.
Was that our last moment together?
‘My lady,’ one of the guards close by said, pointing into the darkness of Forn Forest. ‘Someone approaches.’
Fidele stared into the shadows, Alben tense beside her, a fist clamped around the hilt of his sword. One of the guards had raised a horn to his lips, ready to sound the call to arms.
Figures separated from the gloom, dark silhouettes. Six, seven, then one more, looming behind the others, dwarfing them.
A giant.
Swords were scraping from scabbards, then Fidele recognized the first figure as it passed through a beam of daylight. Alben reached a hand out to the guard with a horn to his lips and pulled the horn away.
One of the scouts whom Alben sent to watch the road. He was leading a group through the forest towards their camp.
She felt her pulse quicken as her eyes scanned the shapes behind him and then she was running, pushing past the guards, ferns and branches whipping at her face. Another figure was moving ahead of the scout, running towards her, a loping stride, all controlled strength and grace.
Maquin.
He opened his stride and ran ahead of the others, meeting Fidele between two great oaks. They fell into each other, Maquin’s arms gripping her around the waist and crushing her against him. Her lips found his and the next few moments were lost to the scent and taste of him. Eventually she heard the others approaching and stepped back, hands still holding his, and looked at him. He was sweat-stained, hair pressed dark against his head. And he was smiling at her, softening the hard lines and scars upon his face. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
‘Now that’s a greeting worth fighting demons from the Otherworld for,’ he said, ‘even if it is most un-queenly behaviour.’ A glance acknowledged the eyes gathering upon them.
‘I am more than just a queen,’ Fidele said with a shrug. ‘And besides, in these times death feels never more than a few steps behind us. While I still draw breath I’ll live my life as I choose.’
Her eyes drifted to his bare arm, a jagged wound hastily stitched. It looked more like an animal bite than the product of a weapon; the edges were torn and bloodied. He saw her gaze upon the injury and shrugged wryly.
‘Can you never come back to me without a fresh wound?’
‘It’s a bad habit, I must confess.’ He smiled at her.
The others gathered about them now, and Fidele saw Krelis standing with Veradis, the bulk of Alcyon the giant behind them. They were both bloodstained and sweating, exhausted, but both of them were grinning at Alben as the old warrior hugged them both.
There was a crashing behind her and they all turned to see Raina the giantess and her bairn ploughing through the undergrowth towards them. Alcyon pushed past Krelis and Veradis, sending them flying, and met his family with an inhuman howl, their arms wrapping around one another, holding, squeezing as if they were becoming one. Slowly they sank to their knees, still entwined, a shuddering sound pulsating from them. Alcyon’s sobs. He held their faces, smothered them both with kisses, wife and son, and their tears and smiles mingled with his.
In such dark times as these it was heartwarming to see such love. She gripped Maquin’s hand more tightly in her own. If only such happiness could last . . .
‘So, what now?’ Krelis asked them.
The small gathering were sitting around the burned-out remains of a fire-pit in the centre of their camp.
‘We must go to Drassil,’ Alben said.
‘Must we?’ Krelis asked, looking around at them all. ‘I’m not one to walk away from a fight, but I’ve just lost nineteen men to . . .’ His voice trailed off.
‘To demons of the Otherworld,’ Veradis said. ‘To the Kadoshim.’
‘Still can’t quite believe it,’ Krelis muttered, wiping a hand across his eyes. ‘I’m not one for faery tales,’ he said. ‘But I know what I saw. My blade in an enemy’s heart, and the bloody creature just smiled at me. I had to take his head to stop him trying to rip my throat out. I saw winged things of mist and shadow forming above the headless corpses.’ He shook his head. ‘If we go to Drassil it sounds as if we’ll face an army of these things. My men are warriors, bred for battle, brave and true-hearted. But they are only men of flesh and blood. So I must ask this question.’ His gaze returned to Alben. ‘Is this our fight?’
Slowly Alben nodded. ‘It is,’ he said. ‘This is the God-War, Krelis. Meical and the Bright Star are there, so
Drassil must be where it will be decided.’
‘The battle is most likely already over,’ Krelis said. ‘Nathair and his . . . allies . . . have at least a ten-night’s march on us.’
‘If we do not go, who else will?’ Alben said. ‘It is our duty to go.’
‘My duty is to my men,’ Krelis said, waving a hand at the warband about them, ‘and to the people of Tenebral. We are less than a thousand swords. We cannot win. A strategic man would withdraw, live to fight another day, when the odds are more in our favour.’
‘There will not be another day if we do not fight now,’ Alben said. ‘Calidus and Nathair will destroy our allies one by one. We must stand with those who oppose them now – before it is too late.’
‘And what if there’s none of these allies left alive at Drassil by the time we get there?’
‘We won’t know unless we go there,’ Alben replied.
A silence lengthened, all looking between Krelis and Alben.
‘Well, maybe you’re right,’ Krelis eventually said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I’ve always come to you when it’s wisdom I’ve been looking for. But what if you’re wrong? Marching deep into the heart of Forn, into unknown ground against a foe that outnumbers us greatly – that’s not wisdom, not when we could retreat and choose our own ground. But still, this is a fight we must all agree to. I say to all of you, ask you all as my brothers-in-arms, are you for this fight, here, now? Are you for Drassil, or are you for home?’
Home, thought Fidele. Part of me longs to find a place of peace with Maquin where this war cannot touch us. But is there a place far enough from this war to escape it? And even if there were, I would not abandon the people of Tenebral to death and torment. And then there is Nathair. Whatever he has done, he is still my son. I cannot just leave him.
‘Well?’ Krelis said, dragging Fidele from her thoughts. ‘We are friends here, equals. We have not been ordered by our lord or king. We are free to choose. Let us put it to the vote. As for me, I say we leave this forest behind us. Back to Tenebral to raise more swords and choose our battleground.’