by John Gwynne
We are close to Gramm’s hold.
With every league that he had travelled, every day that had passed, he had felt his spirits sink. After Meical’s revelation about the prophecy, Corban had been in the deepest depths of despair, but focusing on the hope of being reunited with Cywen and his friends had given him the strength to endure. It had been something to live for. To fight for. Now he knew that, with every breath that he drew, he was being taken further away from them, if they still lived, and despondency had morphed into anger. Hated faces appeared in his mind.
Calidus. Nathair. Ildaer. Rhin. Meical.
He had thought about escape, but the simple truth was that, even if he could somehow break his bonds and slip away from his giant captors, he would not have been able to walk half a league because of his injuries.
Even now, over a moon from when he’d been captured, they were still not fully recovered.
Soon, though, perhaps.
His ribs now were little more than a dull ache, occasionally a twinge of pain if he over-stretched or twisted suddenly. His leg, though, was taking longer to heal. He could put weight on it, now, and walk if he favoured it, but it was still a considerable way from normal.
Surrounding him was a loose line of giants, a score of them, riding their huge bears, Ildaer at their centre. After his first interrogation by Ildaer, Corban had spoken little to the Jotun Warlord. The only people that Corban conversed with were Hala, the giantess healer, and Varan, the blond-haired giant who seemed in some way apprenticed to her.
‘Do you recognize this place?’ Varan rumbled in his ear. The giant’s bulk was in the saddle behind him, his travelling companion and gaoler in one.
Corban didn’t answer.
Will I ever see my kin and friends again?
The sun was sinking as the hill of Gramm’s hold appeared. Ildaer paused to let the bears drink from a stream, Corban staring at the familiar outline of the hill, silhouetted by the red sun. It was hard to see details, but the memory of the place settled upon Corban like a shroud.
Tukul’s death. Gar’s grief and duel with Ildaer, his subsequent defeat by the giant, rage had made Gar reckless.
‘Anger is the enemy,’ Corban murmured, a mantra that Gar had drummed into him a thousand times as they had trained and sparred together.
Please, Elyon above, let Gar be alive, he prayed. He’d not considered other scenarios, the thought of Gar being gone, slain, was almost too much to bear.
He lives still. He must live still.
Ildaer called out a command and with a jolt Varan’s bear lumbered into motion. Corban noted with some satisfaction the lack of pain in his chest and knee.
Hala’s brot has worked wonders; I’ll have to remember to tell Brina about adding goldenseal to it.
They covered the ground quickly, and soon Corban was passing the paddocks and meadows that Gramm’s herds of horses had roamed in, empty now, the fences broken and grass long and swaying in a cold wind from the north. Steadily they climbed the gentle hill that led to the hold. New gates had been built, taller and wider, two squat towers with an arch of stone framing them. Corban passed through into what had been the courtyard.
A wall of sound greeted them as they rode through the broad gates, giants calling out Ildaer’s name, stamping their feet and banging weapons on wood and stone. Ildaer lifted a fist in the air, like a champion, his face set in proud lines.
Corban blinked at the number of giants. There were more than he had seen in one place since he had entered the halls of Murias. Two hundred at least, probably more, moving on the hill and amongst the buildings. Of greater impact on him was the sight of Gramm’s hall. Or the lack of it. The hall was gone, completely. Burned to the ground or torn down, Corban did not know. Jotun giants were gathered around the foundations of the old hall, laying new groundworks for a much larger building. Corban could see the top of a huge foundation stone sunk into the ground, and behind it a timber framework marking out the dimensions of the new hall, stretching back up the hill like the skeleton of some huge long-dead behemoth. Elsewhere, the same was happening: the myriad of smaller human-built wooden buildings – stables and barns and boathouses and dwelling places – all gone, slowly being replaced by larger stone buildings.
‘What are you doing here?’ Corban said to Varan as the giant slipped from the saddle behind him and dropped to the ground with a hefty thump.
Varan grinned at him as he helped Corban dismount.
‘Moving in,’ the giant said.
The next morning Corban awoke in a stone room. A dream lingered, of Coralen. She had been kissing him – or was he kissing her? No, she was definitely kissing me. He closed his eyes, trying to hold onto the memory of her, of her lips against his. For a moment he fancied that he could even smell her, the scent of apples on her breath.
I should have spoken to her, after she kissed me that day in Drassil. Not been such a bumbling idiot. What I would give to see her again, to talk to her . . .
The dream was gone, no point moping, as Brina would have said, so he swung out of bed. He had slept in a stone cot with a mattress stuffed with straw, and yet he felt stiff and cold – worse than he’d felt sleeping on tree roots in Forn. He sat on the side of his bed, fingers probing at his ribs, pleased with the results, and then he tested his injured leg upon the ground.
Not so bad, he thought, slowly allowing it to bear more weight. It was stiff, a dull throb, but no spikes of pain.
So. Good, then. If I am ever to get back to my kin and friends, and fight again, then I will need my leg back. He felt a glimmer of hope flicker in the darkness that his world had become.
Gingerly he walked to the doorway, opened the big oak door and peered out.
The hold was as busy as the night before, giants going about the business of rebuilding the settlement. The timber wall was being taken down, section by section: a new wall was going up, made of great stone blocks. At the moment it was only a man high, but even as Corban watched, more rocks were being drawn up in a huge wain, rolled from the back with a deep thud, clouds of dust roiling up about them.
They mean to be here a long time. This is no raiding party or foray. They are settling, building a new home.
A shadow fell across him. Varan appeared, Hala at her side.
‘How is your leg?’ Hala grunted at him as she shooed him back inside.
‘Better, again,’ he said, ‘though I don’t think I’m ready to start running around the paddock, yet.’
‘Hold your arms wide, shoulder high,’ Hala ordered, and when he did, she made him twist slowly either way. Again, he was pleasantly surprised at the lack of pain.
‘Sit,’ she said, and set about examining his knee. While she was about her work, the door opened and Ildaer entered; a red-haired giant followed him, with an axe-blade jutting over his back.
‘Is ga dom a labhairt leis an priosunach,’ Ildaer said.
‘Fan do sheal,’ Hala muttered.
Ildaer scowled and folded his arms, standing waiting and glowering at Corban. The red-haired giant stared at Corban with barely concealed hatred.
‘It’s doing well,’ Hala said to him. ‘I agree; no running. More brot, though.’
Corban pulled a face but nodded.
Hala grunted and left, Varan went with her.
‘It is time for us to talk again,’ Ildaer said to Corban, who was still sitting on his bed. Ildaer dragged over a stool and sat on it. He unslung the war-hammer from across his back and rested it upon his lap.
Varan came back in to stand leaning against a wall near the doorway.
‘You are my prisoner,’ Ildaer began, ‘but also my guest. I will not keep you chained to a wall or throw you in a hole. You will live amongst us, and you may go where you please within the boundaries of this hold.’
Corban must have shown the shock he felt, because Ildaer paused and raised an eyebrow.
‘What?’ the giant asked.
‘I am just surprised,’ Corban said.
&nb
sp; ‘We are not savages.’ Ildaer shrugged. ‘And besides, you are a worthy enemy. You slew men of repute amongst us, fine warriors. You have earned our respect.’
Giants are often not what they seem. More complicated.
‘Thank you,’ Corban said.
‘Huh,’ Ildaer grunted. ‘Do not think that I will not break both your legs if you try to escape. And either Mort or Varan will stay with you, wherever you go.’
The red-haired giant gave Corban a stony stare.
Not such good news.
‘Now, we will continue with the questions I began back in Forn.’
‘Still something for something?’ Corban asked.
‘You can ask your questions. I’ll answer if I see fit. I came to Drassil expecting to see Jael’s banner assaulting the walls, or raised in victory from the towers, but instead I saw a silver eagle upon a black field.’
‘Aye,’ Corban sighed, feeling sick that he had not been there to help. To fight. To stand with his kin and friends. ‘The silver eagle. That is the banner of Nathair, King of Tenebral,’ Corban said flatly.
‘And Jael. What of him?’
‘His warband was defeated a ten-night earlier. He fled into Forn with a few shieldmen. He is most likely dead.’
Ildaer sat back at that, frowning.
‘My question?’
Ildaer waved a hand, inviting.
‘Balur One-Eye. You saw him here, at the battle for Gramm’s hold. You exchanged words. You knew him?’
Ildaer’s eyes narrowed, and for a long moment Corban thought he wasn’t going to answer.
‘Aye. I know Balur One-Eye; or did. I was young and he was already old, I was a giantling to him.’ Ildaer’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forwards in his chair. ‘Balur is no friend to men. How was he in your company?’
Corban thought of his first meeting with Balur, in the depths of Murias, of their long journey to Drassil, of sparring with the huge warrior in the weapons court, of his rumbling laughter. Of how Balur had charged from the gates of Drassil to come to Corban’s rescue against Jael’s host. And of the last time he had seen Balur, the two of them talking, alone before Skald’s skeleton in the throne of Drassil. Balur had told of how he had been first-sword of the giant High King Skald, and had confessed that he had slain Skald rather than follow his order and strangle Queen Nemain. She had been pregnant with Balur’s child, Ethlinn.
‘I met Balur in Murias, in the far north of Benoth. We had a common enemy, and so became allies, and companions,’ Corban said.
‘Balur slew many of your kind,’ Ildaer said. ‘The tales of his deeds during what you call the Giant Wars, when the Benothi were driven from their fortresses, forced to flee into the north, they show he hates the race of men.’
‘I can only tell you what I saw,’ Corban replied. ‘And life’s not so simple, is it? One man is not the same as another, and I have come to see that the same is true of you giants. We are all capable of good and evil, kindness and cruelty.’ He shrugged. ‘Balur One-Eye is my friend.’
‘Balur One-Eye is an oathbreaker. He slew Skald, the High King, murdered him when he was supposed to protect him. I spit on Balur One-Eye.’
Mort grunted an agreement.
‘When you saw him here, you did not spit on him,’ Corban said. ‘You ran from him.’
Ildaer snarled and lifted a hand, fist bunching.
‘Coinnigh,’ Varan said, ‘Hala ni bheadh a chadu.’ Ildaer froze.
‘You know little of giants,’ Ildaer growled at Corban, ‘if you think you know us so well.’
‘I don’t claim to know you,’ Corban said, ‘but I do know Balur and some of his kin. Ethlinn . . .’ The name had an effect: all three of the giants stared at him as if he’d said he’d broken his fast with Elyon the Maker.
‘She lives, then?’ Ildaer said.
‘Aye, she lives. And she, too, is my friend.’
Ildaer sat and considered Corban a while, and silence settled upon them. Eventually he shifted in his chair.
‘Tell me of this Nathair. Is he your friend, too?’
Corban felt his face twitch at Nathair’s name.
‘No,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘he is not. He is the ally of Calidus, who is a Kadoshim made flesh. They are both my enemies.’
‘Yet they sit in Drassil. Did you run?’ Ildaer sneered.
‘Why am I here?’ Corban asked. ‘Why am I still alive?’
‘Because my heart tells me that you are someone of worth. Someone with friends, and with enemies,’ Ildaer shrugged. ‘Perhaps I will offer you to this Nathair, see what that may bring me. He would be in my debt, maybe?’
‘Why did you not do it, then? We were at Drassil, Nathair before us.’ Corban felt a spike of fear at the thought of being handed over to Nathair and Calidus like a trussed bird. And anger, the image of their faces . . .
‘I was injured.’ Ildaer touched his shoulder, where Atilius’ spear had pierced him. ‘You do not show any weakness to men such as Jael or Nathair,’ he said, an admonishment. ‘And I do not know this Nathair. I knew Jael, had bargained with him. We had an agreement, and I knew his measure. But Jael is dead, you say. And this Nathair . . . I do not trust strangers so easily.’
So he is cautious and mistrustful. Good.
‘You cannot deal with Nathair, or Calidus. They have no honour; they are liars who will smile and stab you as they do.’
‘So speaks their enemy,’ Ildaer snorted.
‘You cannot ally yourself to Nathair and Calidus. Cannot join their side.’
‘We Jotun are not on any side, except our own.’
Corban shook his head. ‘This is the God-War; it does not work like that. All choose a side,’ he said. ‘If you choose not to fight against Asroth, then you have already chosen him. Doing nothing does not absolve you of choice. Doing nothing puts you firmly on Asroth’s side and makes you a coward, as well, for not having the stones to admit it.’
Ildaer stood abruptly, his chair falling over behind him. He gripped his hammer and loomed over Corban.
‘Ach, little man,’ he snarled, ‘it would be so easy to kill you, just for the joy of it, and any advantage you may bring to me be damned.’
‘Do it, then,’ Corban said, glaring up at Ildaer.
Ildaer glowered back, his moustache twitching in anger, then he slung his war-hammer over his shoulder. ‘Perhaps later,’ he said. ‘So you have chosen Elyon, then.’
‘The enemy of my enemy,’ Corban shrugged, remembering Balur had said those same words to him in Murias.
‘That’s no answer,’ Ildaer rumbled. ‘What do you fight for, if not Elyon?’
‘For my kin and loved ones. So that we will not be enslaved or murdered. I’ve seen the Kadoshim, seen only a brief glimpse of what they would do, and it is terrible. I fight against that. I fight for my freedom.’ He felt some of his anger drain. Even though he despised Ildaer, could not remove the memory of him striking down Tukul, he also saw in him a leader trying to steer his people through murky danger-filled waters.
He’s scared. Scared of making the wrong choice and thus damning his people; instead he makes no choice and so damns them all the same.
‘I tried running from it,’ Corban said. ‘From Nathair, from Calidus, but it is the God-War. It caught up with me, forced me to fight. It will do the same with you. The whole of the Banished Lands is the battleground.’
‘I am not running; I am preparing,’ Ildaer said. ‘We will talk again.’ Then he was striding from the room. Varan just stood and stared at Corban a long moment, the angles of his face alien and unreadable, then he followed Ildaer from the room. Mort picked up the chair and sat with his long legs out straight, eyes fixed on Corban.
Corban stood up and walked to the door.
‘What are you doing?’ Mort asked him in rusty common tongue, each word sounding as if he was tasting something disgusting.
‘Going for a walk,’ Corban said and opened the door.
Bright sunlight greeted him
, the sounds of hammering, harsh voices raised in instruction. Corban stood there, then stepped out into the sunlight.
He walked around the courtyard first, taking it slowly, testing his leg with each step, careful not to over-extend, always mindful of the ground he was walking on. From the top of the hill he had a wide view. He walked on, thoughts slipping back to his conversation with Ildaer, the shadow of Mort following along behind him.
So, I am a bargaining tool, he thought. Will likely be handed to Nathair and Calidus on a platter. I have no choice. I must escape.
Noises pulled his attention back, and he looked up. He saw giants shouting, pointing and waving across the river to where a host was gathered on the far side of the river, a great dust cloud above it. In time he could make out individual shapes: bears, hundreds of them, each with a rider on its back, sunlight glinting on spear-heads and mail, and behind the bears a sprawling mass of wagons and giants on foot.
‘Who are they?’ Corban breathed.
‘The Jotun,’ Mort replied, pride and something else in his voice.
Excitement?
‘With our King at their head.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MAQUIN
Maquin stepped out of the tunnel and blinked, half-blinded for a moment, even though he had only emerged into the quiet gloom of Forn Forest. After the tunnel’s darkness it felt like the brightest of days.
After the defeat of Gundul’s warband, they had gathered wains full of provisions from Gundul’s camp. With the help of the men Fidele had found from Drassil and Alben’s scouts, they located the old giant tunnel that led to Drassil. It had been a long, dank journey, over a moon of living in near-total darkness until they emerged from a side tunnel – not wanting to emerge too close to Drassil.
Behind him more figures surfaced – the warband of Ripa.
Veradis appeared with the warriors who had stood with him upon the road, as well as Alcyon, Raina and Tain. Maquin had heard how the shield wall had stood against at least three times as many and broken them, and then of how Veradis had rallied his men against the Kadoshim when they were close to being torn apart.