by John Gwynne
‘Yes, there was a wall of shields,’ Mavet rasped, ‘and many skilled fighters. They knew to take Kadoshim heads. There was a giant.’
‘Alcyon,’ hissed Calidus.
‘I wish I had been there,’ Legion muttered. ‘I would have smashed their bodies and crushed their skulls, I would have broken their bones and fed from their flesh and danced on their dead and sucked out their souls and—’
‘Shut up, Legion,’ Calidus snapped.
‘And now Veradis and the same warband are camped somewhere out there, beyond our gates.’ Nathair shook his head. ‘We’re going to need a bigger warband.’
There was a long silence, then Calidus surged to his feet, hands beneath the table, grabbing it, hurling it into the air. Snarling and gnashing his teeth like a wild beast, Calidus stormed up the stairs, to the cauldron, and gripped its sides.
‘Asroth,’ he yelled. ‘The years I have worked and toiled and laboured to bring you here, and now we are so close. So close. How much longer before we see your glory? Until you are flesh before us?’ He grabbed the starstone spear and with a great wrench pulled it from where it was embedded deep in the great tree and the skeleton of Skald, hurling it at the table he’d just overthrown. It skewered the wood, the shaft vibrating. There was an almighty crash as the bones of the long-dead giant king fell to the floor. And there was another sound, a loud hissing, and a crack. Lykos looked on in disbelief, because there was now a door swinging open from the trunk of the great tree, high and wide as two giants abreast.
Calidus laughed hysterically and hurried into the darkness, reaching up to take a flickering torch from a sconce set into the tree; Nathair went after him, accompanied by Legion. Lykos made sure to retrieve the skin of mead from the floor where it had fallen in Calidus’ outburst before following them.
Mustn’t forget our priorities.
Firelight from the torch revealed a stairwell carved into the tree spiralling down, the walls slick and sticky with resin. The steps opened out into a wide room, its edge filled with iron racks, weapons rowed within them – war-hammer, battle-axe and sword, as well as all manner of tools, tongs, pincers, chisels and working hammers. In the room’s centre stood a huge anvil, and behind it loomed a massive bellows and forge, still banked with eons-old charcoal and cinder.
Lykos walked deeper into the room, hesitantly, reverently; the room felt thick with antiquity, almost sacred.
It was here that the Seven Treasures were forged. Axe and spear, cauldron, cup and dagger, necklace and torc. Here that the great war began.
He took a swig from his skin of mead.
Calidus touched his torch to bowls full of oil set upon stands. They ignited with a sibilant hiss, blue-flickering light and shadow illuminating the room. Calidus grinned, for upon the wall were carved giantish runes and skilled engravings. At first Lykos could not understand what it was – almost the entirety of the wall that circled them was filled with the scribing. Then it fell into place in his mind.
It is a map!
A huge map, rising high, filling the whole wall, encompassing the room.
‘Halvor did this,’ Calidus whispered. ‘The Voice of Skald, survivor of the Scourging. The last giant to dwell here, in this fortress.’
That was a very long time ago.
Drassil was clear upon it, at the centre of Forn Forest, which spread like a dark stain on the wall. The likeness of a spear was etched alongside Drassil.
The starstone spear.
Lykos looked closer, saw another marker within Forn, to the south of the forest.
‘That is Haldis,’ Calidus said, ‘burial ground of the Hunen, where we fought them, broke them. Where we found the starstone axe.’
‘And here is Mikil, Jael’s seat of power in Isiltir,’ Nathair said, ‘and it has an axe engraved besides it.’
‘But you say the axe was found at Haldis,’ Lykos said, ‘not Mikil. Is this map wrong, then?’
‘No, I would think it is a depiction of the Banished Lands when Halvor scribed this. Mikil was built by the Hunen giant clan,’ Calidus said. ‘Dagda was their king, Mikil his seat of power and so it was at Mikil that the starstone axe was kept.’
‘How did it end up in Haldis, then?’ Lykos asked.
‘We know that the starstone axe was still at Mikil until about five years ago, a great relic that King Romar of Isiltir exploited to great financial reward. Then it was stolen by mercenaries and in turn taken from them by the Hunen as they raided out of Forn. It was the Hunen that took the axe to Haldis, the last fortress of theirs not conquered by men.’
So this is the Banished Lands as Halvor knew it then, ruled by the five giant clans. And the whereabouts of each starstone Treasure, at that time. Lykos blew out a long breath, turning in a circle, the enormity of the map staggering him.
That was a long time ago, though. Many things have changed since then.
‘Look, here is Murias in the west,’ Calidus said, pointing to a carved mountain. Beside it the likeness of a cauldron, a cup, and a necklace, and above them, a word scribed in runes.
‘Nemain. Queen of the Benothi,’ Calidus said. ‘It is saying that she had control of the cauldron, cup and necklace.’
‘So three of the Treasures were at Murias, not just the cauldron?’ Nathair asked.
‘No, not at Murias. See, it suggests that they were in Nemain’s care, but not necessarily at Murias. The Benothi ruled all of the west – Dun Carreg, Dun Taras, Dun Crin, Dun Vaner, all were their strongholds.’ He was silent a moment, poring over the map. ‘Uthas most likely spoke true,’ he muttered, ‘the cup at Dun Taras and the necklace at Dun Carreg.’
‘So what does this say, then?’ Lykos asked, pointing up high at a peninsula to the north-west of Forn Forest. There was a word scribed there, and a dagger etched beside it.
‘That is the Desolation,’ Calidus said, ‘and it says, Eld.’ He tugged at the peeling flesh on his chin, where his silver beard had once been.
‘Eld was King of the Jotun giants when the Scourging took place,’ Calidus mused.
‘I remember the Scourging,’ Legion said wistfully. ‘Death and destruction, battle with the Ben-Elim.’
‘I remember it, too,’ Calidus said sourly. ‘We lost.’
‘Not this time, though,’ Legion said, a malicious grin creeping across his face.
‘Eld, King of the Jotun?’ Nathair prompted.
‘Yes. He was King of the Jotun, back at the time of the Scourging, and apparently he has, or at least had, the starstone dagger. He took his clan out of the war, marched them into the Desolation, never to be heard of again.’ Absently he rolled and flicked his dead flesh away.
‘He is surely dead, now?’ Nathair asked.
‘That would depend, on whether he drank from the starstone cup; it prolongs life. Substantially. But even so, he may still have died, perhaps slain by someone’s hand since, or just a fool accident. But even if he is dead, we must think it likely that the dagger remains with the Jotun.’
‘Jael of Isiltir had dealings with them,’ Nathair said. ‘He told me of a warlord of the Jotun.’ He pinched his nose, trying to remember. ‘Ildaer was his name. And what about this?’ Nathair pointed to one last place on the map. To the east of Forn. It was hard to tell, but it looked like a lake, or an inland sea, and within it, an island. And about that island was a broken circle. No, something else.
A torc.
The starstone torc.
Calidus smiled at Nathair and Lykos, looking more like his old self than he had since they had arrived at Drassil.
Nothing like finding the whereabouts of a starstone Treasure to brighten up your day.
‘Nathair, you will take a sizeable force of your eagle-guard, up to two thousand swords – large enough to comfortably defeat Veradis and his rabble, while leaving a thousand or so here to guard the cauldron, axe and spear – and you will march out with Mavet to find Lothar. You will warn him of our enemy lurking in the forest, protect him from attack and guide him here w
ith all possible speed. If you hear from our half-breed spy, then you shall act on her information. If you can destroy the rabble in the woods, then by all means do so.’
‘Aye, that sounds like a good plan to me,’ Nathair said. ‘And what of you and your few hundred Kadoshim?’
‘I would like to seek out the dagger, in the north, but I am not happy to leave the cauldron, spear and axe with so few to guard them.’
He stood with head bowed, leaning on the huge anvil at the centre of the room, fingers drumming, long nails click-clacking on the age-old iron.
‘So,’ he said, looking up. ‘I shall contact Rhin and tell her to muster the warband of the west and march with it to Drassil. Once she has arrived and the Treasures here are beyond all assault, then I shall go in search of Eld and the starstone dagger.’
He is good at this. It’s no wonder we’re winning.
‘And you, Lykos, I think it is time for you to leave Drassil for a time.’
I couldn’t agree more.
‘You are going to Arcona and the isle of Kletva to get the starstone torc. Take as many men as you see fit. And Legion will go with you.’
‘Yes,’ Legion muttered. ‘Enemies to kill, bones to shatter, blood to spill and brains to splatter. Flesh to pound and hearts to tear from chests and—’
‘I do not care if you murder half the Banished Lands,’ Calidus snarled. ‘Just bring me back the starstone torc.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CORBAN
Corban woke to the smell of Storm’s dew-damp fur and Coralen’s hair tickling his face. He didn’t mind either sensation. In fact, they both made him smile, because they reminded him of the good things that had happened yesterday.
Coralen. How is it that one kiss can have such a lasting effect? And Storm – when I’d thought her dead. I feel . . . happy. Should that even be possible under these circumstances, in these dark days? He didn’t know what the answer should be to that, and in truth didn’t really care.
Dawn washed the land in a clean glow, pale and crisp, the sky above sheer and blue, the land below dew-sparkled and still. Birds sang from their vantage in the hawthorn ring, though there were new additions to the usual chorus of blackbird and wren, of warblers and robin and thrush. A gathering of crows weighed down the branches, hunched and dour in their black-feathered cloaks, all eyeing the feast of corpses beneath them, once-proud giant and fierce bear, now just mounds of skin, meat and bone, a feast for crows.
I wish Craf were one of them. Strange to say, but I miss that scruffy old crow. Dath, the others – I need to check on them.
Storm shifted behind him, a deep breath and a rumble in her chest as she woke and climbed to her feet.
Corban did the same, his body complaining as he did so, joints stiff, bruises aching and making themselves known.
Storm followed him, rubbing her head against him, pushing into his chest.
You’ve grown! You’re taller. He looked at her broad chest. And wider.
He scratched her muzzle, picked blood from a tooth, tugged on the fur of her cheeks, then saw the scar where she had been stabbed with a giant’s spear: a pink patch of skin just above her right shoulder, about the size of Corban’s fist. As he looked closer he saw that her body was a patchwork of scars, a blend of claw and iron, dealt by both man and beast.
You poor thing. What have I dragged you into? What have I dragged all of us into?
He stretched and gazed down at Coralen.
I kissed her.
He blew out a long breath and felt a lightness flutter in his chest. She opened her eyes and saw him, a smile of her own creeping across her face. It made him want to lie back down beside her, and maybe reacquaint himself with her lips.
‘What’re you gawping at?’ Coralen asked him, though she was still smiling.
‘You,’ he said.
Someone groaned behind him and he shook his head, feeling as if it was filling with a warm and pleasant mist.
There are wounded who need tending.
‘Help me up,’ Coralen said as she tried to rise, a grimace replacing her smile.
He did, and after taking a look at her bruised ribs and giving her some more brot they both set about checking on the others.
Gar was already up. He’d lit a fire and had a pot boiling over it, Kulla and Varan were sitting with him. Sig was checking over the giants’ bodies, rummaging through packs, cloaks and belt pouches.
‘I thought it was safe,’ Gar said, pointing at the small fire and curl of smoke. ‘Don’t think we’ve any more enemies left alive. Within eyesight, at least.’
Corban looked nervously at his oldest companion, who had said little to him since the previous night’s revelations. Of everyone, he knew that it would hit Gar the hardest. He had devoted his whole life to the prophecy, to the belief that Corban was the Bright Star.
But now Gar knows I’m not the Bright Star. Has it changed what he thinks of me? Changed us? That thought scared Corban, made him feel that the ground was shifting beneath his feet. It made him angry at Meical all over again.
‘I’ve checked Dath,’ Gar said as Corban strode over to his friend. ‘His wounds look all right, not infected, anyway. I’ve left the others to sleep.’
‘I’m not asleep,’ Farrell’s voice drifted up to them. ‘Just in too much pain to move.’
Corban helped the groaning Farrell to his feet and over to the fire, then went back for Laith, who groaned a lot less, but still seemed unsteady on her feet, her eyes not always focused.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, brushing him off and slurping some hot tea from a bowl that Gar gave her.
Coralen was sitting on a log close to the fire, a row of weapons arrayed before her – sword, wolven claws and three knives. She was methodically cleaning them, scouring blood and dirt away, rasping nicks out, then oiling and scouring again. Corban liked the sound of it, there was something comforting about it.
Sig strode over to them, sitting down beside Varan, her face flat and cold. She gave Varan a curt shake of her head. Corban offered his arm to Varan.
‘We’d have been dead without you,’ Corban said. ‘We owe you our lives.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Varan said, eyeing Storm. ‘Not with friends like that. I’ll still take your arm, though, and be happy to call you friend.’ He took Corban’s forearm in the warrior grip, his fist wrapping around Corban’s. ‘Though I’m not the first giant to call you friend, I think.’ He looked at Laith.
‘You’re not,’ Laith confirmed. ‘Corban’s a popular man.’
‘I’m understanding that,’ Varan said. ‘In truth, we did not come just to save your skin, though I’m glad that we did.’
‘We came for Mort,’ Sig said, glowering into the pot over their fire.
‘He slew Eld,’ Varan said. ‘And many more of the Jotun.’
‘Well, we thank you all the same,’ Gar said, refilling Varan and Sig’s bowls of tea from the pot.
‘I have something for you,’ Varan said, reaching into a pack at his feet and pulling out a bundle wrapped in deerskin. He unrolled it to reveal Gar’s sword, back in its scabbard, and his throwing axe. ‘You look to be people who value their blades.’
Gar gave a rare grin at the sight of his sword and axe. He took them gratefully, turning them over in his hands, examining them.
‘I am most thankful, and in your debt,’ he said.
‘You slew Ildaer with them. That is thanks enough,’ Sig said grimly.
‘It seems Ildaer was planning a coup,’ Varan said. ‘He’d been plotting to assassinate Eld soon, but when Eld ordered the Jotun back into the Desolation – well, it brought his plans forward.’
‘I thought you were part of his warband,’ Corban said.
‘I was, but as I said to you, I think Hala rubbed off on me a little. Ildaer certainly did not trust me enough to speak to me of his plan. And he was right not to. I came south to win battle-fame and honour for the Jotun. Assassinating our King is not how I’d th
ink to achieve that.’
Sig muttered something under her breath, more ways she’d like to re-kill Mort, no doubt.
‘So,’ said Varan, ‘what would you do, now? I would offer the Jotun’s hospitality to you, if you want it. You are welcome to come with us; you would find shelter and healing at our hold.’
‘Do you speak for all of the Jotun?’ Laith asked Varan.
‘I do,’ Sig said.
Be the guests of the Jotun? Of all the options, I did not think about that one.
A rest is tempting, especially to heal. Look at us all. But in the end it would be no different to leaving, to building a hold somewhere far away and trying to find some peace and happiness.
He glanced at Coralen. Which is very appealing. But in the end there is only Asroth, Calidus and the Kadoshim. We will have to fight them eventually, or kneel to them, and most likely be killed anyway.
‘We spoke of this, last night,’ Corban said. ‘I told you all my feelings on it, what I would do. But as for you all . . .’
He did not want to speak for them, or put words in their mouths. Or persuade them to do something they didn’t want to do.
Gar was staring at him, his face unreadable, as usual.
‘Surely you know,’ Gar said. ‘I’ll not speak for the others, but as for me, prophecy or no, I go where you go. You are my life, Corban, my breath, the reason I wake and rise. When my da died . . .’ He paused then, looked away, a muscle clenching in his jaw. ‘When my da died, the world became a dark place. It was only you that caused me to rise from my cot each day.’
‘But, now that you know . . .’ Corban said.
‘Ach, that makes no difference to me,’ Gar said with a wave of his hand. ‘No difference.’ He was silent a few moments, thoughtful. ‘Once, yes, it was about the prophecy, but that was a long time ago. So long ago. Now, I believe in you.’ He poked Corban’s chest with his finger. I’ll follow you wherever you go. To hell and back.’
‘Haven’t we just done that?’ a weak voice said – Dath, finally awake. Kulla ran over to him. ‘Feels like it, at least,’ the bowman mumbled.
‘Always so dramatic,’ Farrell muttered.