by John Gwynne
Jael heaved himself to his feet, raised his sword and pivoted on his heel, but the expected blow never came at him. Instead Maquin was standing a few paces away, just staring at him.
‘I’ve waited a long time for this,’ Maquin said, his voice as cold and hard as frosted iron. ‘Killing you quick’s too good for you.’
A seed of fear blossomed in Jael’s chest, the utter confidence in Maquin’s eyes chilling him.
Don’t be a fool, I’ve watched him train on the weapons court. I know his strengths, his weaknesses. He’s old, slow. I know I can beat him.
‘Kastell said something similar, just before I bled him like a sow,’ Jael said, trying to keep the pain of his splintered ribs out of his voice.
Maquin came at him, slowly this time. Jael noticed knife hilts protruding from half a dozen places on Maquin – two on his belt, a shoulder strap, a hilt poking from a boot.
One of Maquin’s short swords trailed a lazy circle as the battle-scarred warrior rolled a wrist, then, almost faster than Jael could follow, Maquin was striking at him. Jael staggered backwards, pain from his ribs exploding with every breath and step as he blocked Maquin’s blows, each parry more ragged than the last.
He’s as fast as the Jehar – it’s impossible. What’s happened to him? Panic threatened Jael now, as a line of white fire ignited along one thigh where Maquin cut him, moving too fast for him to defend against, another wound appearing on his forearm, a slash across his forehead sending him tumbling backwards as blood sheeted into his eyes.
Jael lay on his back, an arm wiping the blood from his eyes. Looking up, he saw grey sky veiled by the trees of Forn, and then Maquin appeared, looming over him. His face was latticed with scars, one ear mostly gone, just a lump of flesh remaining, his hair more grey than black.
Jael searched the ground for the hilt of his sword, felt its worn leather and snatched at it. Maquin’s boot crunched into his ribs as the old warrior kicked him.
Jael screamed, rolled over, vomited bile into the mud.
‘When you see Kastell, be sure and tell him I kept my oath,’ Maquin said above him.
This can’t be happening. He’s OLD!
Jael rolled onto his back, arms raised, wanting to beg for mercy but he couldn’t seem to get his lungs to work properly; only a blubbering wheeze came from his gaping mouth.
Maquin raised one of his swords.
Then there was a crunch and Maquin was gone.
He turned his head and saw Maquin borne to the ground, grappling with another figure, small and wiry.
Dag. I love that man!
Jael climbed to his knees, grabbed his sword and levered himself to his feet, a wave of dizziness and nausea threatening him as his broken ribs complained. All around him men were fighting, the Jehar seemingly reduced to a handful, and more men in black and silver joining the battle. Gundul and his protectors were nowhere to be seen.
I need to get out of here.
Maquin and Dag were still fighting, Maquin’s short swords lying in the mud, a knife glinting in Dag’s fist. Jael stumbled towards them, raised his sword, waiting for a clear thrust at Maquin.
A new battle-cry rose up, this one deep and alien. The giant he had seen in Maquin’s company had appeared from out of the smoke and chaos, two more giants behind him, as well as a knot of warriors in black and silver. The first giant saw him and bellowed, then charged at him, all those behind him following. Jael felt the ground tremble. He glanced down at Dag and Maquin.
I need Maquin dead, and Dag alive. He is going to get me back to Isiltir.
Jael looked back up at the onrushing giant and the swarm of sharp iron behind it.
He turned and ran.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FIDELE
Fidele paced around the cold ash of the fire-pit. In the distance she could hear the screams of battle and the clash of iron.
They say I am queen, that I must do my duty and lead the men of Tenebral, yet they leave me here with a score of men, guarded like a prisoner. To keep me safe. How is this leading?
She muttered a string of curses under her breath; some of the shieldmen left to guard her glanced at her. A smile twitched the mouth of one.
I should not be here.
When Maquin had suggested the attack on Gundul’s camp she had known instantly that it was the right thing to do, and the thought of doing, of attacking instead of running, had its own heady appeal. Fidele had seen the others warm to the idea quickly and had felt a jolt of pride in Maquin, seeing him listened to by the lords of Ripa. Not that it had surprised her. She’d recognized something rare in Maquin during their escape through Tenebral: intelligence and strength, and a lack of ego. He had the ability to look at a situation and know what had to be done. And then to do it, with absolute commitment, or die in the trying.
More screams echoed through the forest, the din of battle ebbing and flowing, and she ground her teeth in frustration.
I will not be a bystander, or a leader that does not lead.
She brushed the knife hilt at her belt and strode away from the cold fire-pit towards a rack of weapons, gripped a slim-shafted spear and hefted it, testing its weight. For a moment she was back in Tenebral, in the forest with Maquin, fighting her fear as she plunged a spear into the throat of a Vin Thalun warrior.
‘My lady?’ one of the warriors said questioningly.
‘I am going to the battle,’ Fidele said.
‘What? Is that . . . wise?’ The warrior blinked. ‘My lady,’ he added. He was not young, by the look of him he was a veteran of battle, a scar running through the red and silver of his beard.
But unused to talking to queens, it appears.
‘What is your name?’ she asked him.
‘Agost, my lady,’ he said.
‘Well, Agost, I am going to see how the battle fares.’
‘But, Alben—’
‘Is not my lord, and does not command me,’ Fidele finished for him. ‘My people are out there, fighting; my place is with them. I have seen war and dark deeds,’ she continued, louder, for all to hear. ‘I am no stranger to blood, and right now the men of Tenebral are spilling theirs. I’ll not stand hidden and await the outcome. Though we are few in number we could still be needed at some hard-pressed moment. Battles have turned on less.’ She looked around at their faces, saw the eagerness in their eyes, knew they did not want to be standing guard over her when their shield-brothers were dying.
With that she gripped her spear like a staff and marched resolutely out of the camp.
The sound of battle grew steadily louder as they moved through the forest, Agost and a few others slipping in front of her, a protective hand.
Agost paused, held his hand up, and they stopped.
‘What?’ Fidele whispered.
‘Someone’s out there,’ Agost said, pointing deeper into the forest, away from the sound of battle. He signalled and a handful of men followed him into the trees, disappearing into the shadows. For a hundred heartbeats Fidele heard nothing, then shouting, a clash of iron. Voices.
‘My lady,’ Agost’s voice called and Fidele stepped through the trees, the remainder of her guard about her.
Agost and his warriors stood with three men, all clothed in leather and fur, beards braided and bound with leather. Axes hung at their belts, single-bladed and short-hafted. There was a hardness about these men that Fidele was used to seeing in veterans of battle.
‘Tell her what you told me,’ Agost said.
‘We come from Drassil,’ one said, ‘sent south in search of allies.’
‘Allies for whom?’ Fidele asked. ‘Who do you fight for?’
‘We fight for Corban, the Bright Star,’ the three men said together.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MAQUIN
Maquin rolled in the dirt, grunting as his attacker butted him in the mouth. He spat blood into the man’s face, butted him back and felt the grip on his wrist loosen, then he was rolling free, pulling a knife from his boot.
>
The man facing him climbed to his feet. He was small, lean with wiry muscle, face a burn-scarred mess.
We have much in common.
‘Whatever he promised you, Jael’s not worth it,’ Maquin growled.
‘Gold’s always worth it,’ the man snarled back, pulling a knife of his own from a sheath at his back.
Maquin lunged in, their blades clashing, sparking, Maquin ducking a hooked punch, pivoting away, swaying back in close, knife stabbing for his enemy’s throat. He was blocked, the man backing away. They parted and circled, Maquin crouched and circling like a stalking wolf.
A bellowing roar rang out. Maquin’s eyes were drawn to the battle about them. Alcyon was there, hacking with his two woodsman’s axes at a Kadoshim that was standing over another giant figure – Alcyon’s son? The Kadoshim’s head arced through the air, black mist hissing from the collapsing corpse.
A scuffing of earth drew Maquin back to his enemy. He swayed left, avoided a knife in the eye, kicked out, his foot connecting with a knee, heard cartilage crunch, then Maquin was in close, plunging his knife into his enemy’s belly. He twisted the blade, ripped it free and shoved the slumping figure away.
‘Can’t take gold where you’re going,’ Maquin grunted at the dying man.
He didn’t answer, eyes already glazing and vacant.
The battle around him was all but done, the Kadoshim that had fallen back from Gundul’s honour guard all slain, though many men had fallen to their blades. A scattering of Gundul’s other warriors were still fighting against the black and silver of Krelis’ men, but they were all but broken. Maquin stared into the distance, searching for Jael.
But I know the direction he was running. His eyes lifted over the tents to look towards the road and embankment that cut into Forn Forest.
Fastest way out of here.
Alcyon and Raina were lifting their son from the ground. Maquin approached them, retrieving his short swords as he did so. The giantling was loose-limbed, a cut on his temple swelling, but other than that he looked well enough.
‘He’ll live,’ Maquin said. Then, ‘My thanks, for following me.’
The giant shrugged. ‘Raina has spoken to me of you, of what you did for her and Tain.’
Maquin didn’t know what to say about that. He looked beyond the giant, saw a scattering of the warriors who had been put under his command, realized that the sight of Jael had driven all else from his mind.
‘Alben?’ he asked.
‘On the hill, waiting for Krelis,’ the giant said.
‘I’m here,’ a voice called: Krelis, emerging from an aisle between tents. He was blood soaked and grinning. ‘Remind me to listen to you next time you say you have a plan,’ he said to Maquin.
‘The plan’s not done until Gundul’s dead,’ Maquin said.
‘Aye. Where is that little snot-nosed arseling? Alben got him trussed up on the hill?’
‘No,’ Maquin grunted. ‘He’s fled, with a few score Kadoshim about him. That way.’ He pointed.
‘Well, what are we doing standing here flapping our jaws, then?’
‘Just what I was thinking.’
Krelis tugged on his beard, eyes narrowing as he looked the way Gundul had fled. ‘Best go and tell Alben to follow us,’ Krelis said to Maquin. ‘We’ll need all the swords we can muster against those damn Kadoshim.’
‘Send someone else,’ Maquin said as he strode away. ‘I’m going after Gundul.’
And Jael.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
VERADIS
‘Shield wall,’ Veradis shouted, lifting his borrowed shield and expecting those either side of him to lock into place. There was a sporadic thudding as shields came up, lacking the controlled discipline that he was used to.
These men are not my Draig’s Teeth, not veterans of a score of battles in the shield wall. He bit back a curse. I am lucky they are here at all.
When Veradis had spoken of using the shield wall to clear the road, Krelis had curled a lip in disgust. Veradis’ brother had never liked the idea of men fighting in such a way; to him it lacked honour.
‘It works, and it will save lives.’ Even as Veradis had said the words he’d heard Nathair’s voice echoing them in his mind.
‘Your task is to keep the road clear and then to hold it,’ Alben had said, stepping in between the two brothers. ‘How you do it is your decision, Veradis. Only guard our backs and stop the reinforcements that will surely come from further along the road.’
Krelis had said no more, and so the plan had proceeded, Krelis attacking the road from the north, Alben and Maquin spearheading two smaller groups into the camp, Veradis and his reserve group holding the road as Krelis moved on to the main camp, and guarding against the counter-attack that would inevitably come.
So far it had all gone remarkably smoothly: the enemy breaking and scattering, surprise and ferocity shattering any resistance before it had a chance to form fully.
It’s amazing what a small and focused force can do against a larger, unprepared one.
He took a deep breath, knew that battle was close, tried to calm the anger he felt bubbling away inside his chest. That was his overwhelming emotion, right now. Anger. He was angry with Calidus, for the web of lies and deception he had woven, and for what he had done to Nathair, but that was nothing beside the anger he felt for his old friend. Nathair, how could you believe Calidus? Why did you not resist, or come to me sooner? We could have stood against Calidus together. And most of all, he was angry with himself. I am a fool. How did I not see it all happening about me? Veradis the loyal. Veradis the trust-worthy. Veradis the blind idiot, I say.
Calm yourself. Focus, you have a battle to fight.
He had gathered his two hundred on the embankment to the north-east of the camp, at the point where the road left the camp behind and ploughed into the forest. From this vantage point Veradis had watched Krelis, Alben and Maquin flood through the camp with their small bands of men. Fires and great clouds of smoke marked their paths as they moved ever deeper, inexorably towards the hill with Gundul’s command tent on it. He’d seen movement on the hill, what looked like combat, though it was hard to discern any details because of the distance. Now the flames and smoke were so dense that it was hard to see anything at all, but Veradis’ attention was needed elsewhere, anyway. To his left, in the depths of Forn, men were approaching along the road. Veradis saw a knot of warriors in mail and leather at the front and centre of a much larger horde that spilt down the embankments to either side.
At least a thousand strong.
Finally the shields either side of Veradis locked into his. He felt the urge to order the march, knew that the shield wall moving towards a larger foe had always caused hesitation and sown seeds of fear in the enemy, but he was uncertain of the men about him. Just getting into formation on the road and forming the shield wall had seemed to tax them. He glanced at the warrior to his right – a young man, his beard a straggly thing.
Young! I know him; it is Balen. He is only a few years younger than I. We used to spar together. But Veradis felt older than his years, knew that his travels and experience in the shield wall set him apart from most of those about him.
I cannot expect too much from them, yet. They only know this much because Nathair ordered that all men of Tenebral were drilled in the shield wall.
It will have to do, Veradis thought. Marching may be a step too far. We’ll wait here for them. We fill the road and block the path to the camp, so they’ll have to cut us down and march through us to get at Krelis’ flank.
Looking at the men around him, earnest, brave men a thousand leagues from home, he felt some of his anger drain, replaced with sympathy and a deep sense of responsibility for them.
‘Balen, listen to me,’ Veradis said to the warrior beside him. The man returned his gaze and Veradis saw fear in his eyes.
‘Follow my orders and we’ll come through this.’
The warrior nodded at him, then looked away.
‘If they get past us, our kin and sword-brothers die!’ Veradis yelled, feeling the blood begin to surge through his veins, fear and excitement merging into the exhilaration that he always felt before battle. ‘Remember your oaths and fight for your sword-brother beside you.’
He felt Balen stand straighter alongside him.
They were inexperienced, but to the warband of Gundul that was approaching him the shield wall was like nothing they had ever seen before. Veradis saw the front ranks of the enemy slow, close enough now to see looks of confusion and worry upon their faces.
Warriors are a superstitious bunch, always wary of the unknown.
‘Swords,’ Veradis shouted, drawing the short blade at his hip. About and behind him he heard the hiss of iron leaving leather. He began to thump his hilt upon the wooden boards of his shield, the rhythmic pounding taken up first by those about him, then spreading, rippling through the deep wall of two hundred men. He saw its effect upon those approaching, warriors hesitating in their steps, uncertainty spreading like a mist. Then one warrior stepped from the crowd, a big man, clad in mail, a helm of iron, his sword raised high. He bellowed a wordless challenge and ran at Veradis’ wall of shields. A trickle of men followed him, warriors from the centre, then others – warriors, woodsmen and labourers from the flanks, all screaming blood and murder.
‘Ready!’ Veradis roared, spreading his feet and leaning forwards into his shield. A thread of fear clenched in his belly as it always did in this moment, when battle was inevitable but not yet joined.
Then men were crashing into his shield, blows raining upon it, shuddering through his wrist and arm, into his shoulder, numbing muscle and sinew, and the fear was gone. A face appeared above his shield rim, snarling at him.
‘NOW,’ Veradis bellowed, stabbing his short sword through the thin gap between his shield and Balen’s, to either side warriors doing the same. He felt his blade bite into flesh, drew it back red, stabbed again. The face above his shield rim disappeared, replaced by another. He stabbed again, felt his blade turn on mail, drew it back and stabbed lower, heard a scream, kept stabbing, not frantically as Balen was doing beside him, but steady, a rhythm to it.