by John Gwynne
‘Here we are,’ Rafe said, gesturing to the steps that led up to the tower’s wide doors.
‘Evnis’ chamber,’ Rhin said, dismounting.
Cobwebs grew thick across the doorway, stretching and tearing as Rafe shouldered through them. They entered a wide entrance hall, ahead of them a spiral stairwell that Rafe led them up, leaving footprints in the dust-covered steps. At the top there was a landing, a single door into a shadowed chamber, sparsely furnished: a bed, a table, one chair, some tapestries hanging across one wall.
‘This is, was, Evnis’ chamber,’ Rafe said with a shrug.
‘Find it,’ Rhin told them.
Uthas and Salach began to search the room, Salach dragging the furniture away from the walls, Uthas running his fingertips across cold stone. He found the hidden door behind the tapestry, a depression and crack that looked like a fault in the stone. Uthas pushed into it, and then there was a breath of stale air and a click, the outline of a door appearing. Rhin clapped and laughed as Uthas pulled the door open. Inside was a small room, another table and chair, a wall sconce. On the table was a casket, big enough to hold a large book. Uthas opened it, feeling the throbbing pulse of power that emanated from it before he’d peered inside.
There was no book.
But there was a necklace.
Uthas sat at a table in a chamber of the great-keep. Rhin was with him, and Salach, and Rafe, who stood at an unshuttered window, staring out into the night.
Beside a jug of wine and drinking cups Rhin’s dread devices were set on the table. The iron bowl crackled with fire, the wooden frame had the flayed skin already hung and stretched upon it.
And there were two other items upon the table, side by side. Uthas’ eyes were drawn to them. The necklace: a dark stone the size of an egg wrapped in silver wire, bound and set within a silver chain. And a cup, larger than the other two on the table, carved from black stone, dull, unremarkable.
The starstone cup.
Uthas stared at it covetously, his eyes only drawn away by a sudden movement from Rhin as she opened a vial and sprinkled droplets of blood upon the flames, a hiss as they flared bright, and then Rhin’s voice, harsh and brittle.
‘Thoghairm mé leat anois, Conall, slayer agus bhfeallaire ghaoil, tríd an flesh agus fola ar mo namhaid,’ she said, repeating the phrase countless times until it filled Uthas’ mind, the skin and flames all he could see, the dark words all that he could hear.
Dark words indeed, slayer and betrayer of kin, slayer and betrayer of kin.
The skin on the frame rippled and stretched, features forming, an animated parody of life. A spluttering wheeze escaped the desiccated lips, sounding like the crackle of flames, the flicking of dusty parchment.
‘By Asroth’s teeth, Rhin, but I’m not liking this,’ a voice said, fear-laced.
‘You don’t need to like it, Conall,’ Rhin replied, haggard in the firelight, the deep lines on her face filled with shadow.
‘Aye, well, it feels . . . strange. Like there’s a cold-fingered hand clutching my face.’
‘Listen to me,’ Rhin said, commanding. ‘Muster your warband. Not just an honour guard, or a few hundred swords. I mean the whole strength of Domhain, and I want you to lead it to Dun Carreg.’
‘What! But—’
‘Do it,’ Rhin hissed, ‘and do it quickly, or there will be a new regent in Domhain.’
‘Ach, no need for temper,’ Conall said. ‘Of course I’ll do it, I’ll not forget who put me here. But it’s no easy task, is all I’m saying.’
‘If it was easy, anyone could do it,’ Rhin replied. ‘I need you here in one moon.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Conall said.
I do not think that is what he was going to say.
‘Good. I knew I could count on you. Then I shall see you in one moon’s time. And, Conall,’ Rhin said.
‘Aye?’
‘Sharpen your sword.’
Rhin sat back, breaking the connection, and lifted a cup, drinking deeply, her hand unsteady.
When she was calmed she took a sheaf of parchment, weighted its ends, dipped a quill in ink and began to scribe. Eventually she sat back, pinched some ground powder from a pot and sprinkled it over the ink and parchment. Then she beckoned to Rafe.
‘This is to go to Morcant,’ Rhin said. ‘I want him back here, not gallivanting around Ardan. Edana is of small matter in the lie of things, now. An inconvenience. You will take this to him, and bring him back to me.’
‘Aye,’ Rafe grunted.
Rhin shifted in her seat and scowled at him.
‘My Queen,’ Rafe added.
Rhin smiled coldly, running a finger down his face, a long nail tracing the arc of his wound where a talon had scored him from temple to chin.
‘You have a lot of potential, my young huntsman,’ she said. ‘Great things lie ahead of you, and I shall help you achieve them, as you shall help me.’
‘Aye, my Queen,’ he gulped.
‘Off with you, then,’ she said and Rafe hurried from the room.
Rhin put her sorcerous paraphernalia into her travelling chest, then the starstone necklace. She snapped the lock shut and turned the key. There was only the starstone cup left on the table, now, a jug beside it.
‘Well, we have finally reached the moment,’ Rhin said, looking at Uthas. ‘The one we have both longed for. Time to drink.’
‘It is,’ Uthas agreed, surprised at the tremor in his voice.
She poured wine into the cup, then took Uthas’ hand and led him to a door in the chamber, opened it to reveal a wide bed.
‘We shall be incapacitated a while,’ Rhin said, ‘so we shall remain here, under guard of your shieldman and mine. And when we awake . . .’ She smiled languorously at Uthas as she led him into the bedchamber and shut the door.
She sat on the bed, lifted the cup to her lips and drank a long, deep draught. She smiled and passed him the cup; even as he lifted it to his mouth her eyes were widening, a gasp of pleasure escaping her parted lips, the wine upon them black as heart’s blood.
He remembered what it was like the first time, pleasure and pain, and steeled himself for what was to come.
He drank greedily, emptying the cup, felt the wine hit his belly, a warm glow radiating outwards, creeping into his veins, spreading, an expanding wave of pleasure magnified. Rhin sank back onto the bed, writhing, a beatific smile upon her face, her hands gripping the woollen bed sheets, twisting them. His body felt like liquid gold, warm, melting, and he was unable to keep himself upright, felt himself sinking onto the bed, groaned with pleasure, laughed for the joy of it.
Then Rhin began to scream.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
HAELAN
Haelan slipped along the street, clinging to the deeper shadows, despite it being full dark. Pots ran in front, and he heard Cywen and Buddai behind.
Cywen had news for them all, so they were making their way back to Haelan’s den together. He’d accompanied Pots on more midnight missions in search of food and provisions since that first reunion with Cywen.
I’ve changed since Buddai broke loose and took me to Cywen, he thought. I don’t feel quite as afraid all the time.
It was good to have a proper grown-up around, someone who could make the decisions and take responsibility. He had been so scared for so long, and even though Swain was older than him and a lot more capable, Haelan had somehow felt that the final decisions on their life in the den had fallen on him. Once he would have loved that, especially when Tahir was ordering him around, but now that he’d had a good taste of it, he’d decided he didn’t like it so much.
Not all it’s rumoured to be.
‘Haelan, stop,’ Cywen hissed behind him.
He slipped into a deep-shadowed doorway and Cywen paused, catching her breath. Buddai stared at her, big tongue lolling from his jaws.
‘What?’ Haelan asked.
‘I thought I heard something,’ she breathed. ‘Behind us.’
Haelan
stared back down the coal-black street, no light except that of a cloud-swept moon and stars pale and distant as home. A dozen heartbeats passed, fifty, a hundred.
‘There’s nothi—’ he started, then Pots growled, Buddai joining him shortly after.
Not a good sign.
Haelan shared a look with Cywen; she looked as terrified as he felt, and they both bolted, running hard down the street, Pots and Buddai following them.
Who is it back there? Have we been followed, or is it a random patrol? A drunken Vin Thalun who’s stumbled the wrong way and got lost?
Whoever it was, Haelan knew he and Cywen could not afford to be seen. He ran as fast as he could, heart thumping in his mouth, twisting and skidding to turn down side streets that led deeper into the fortress.
And then they were in the courtyard, sprinting across the uneven flagstones, Pots leaping into the dark hole beneath the oak as if it was a race that he was set on winning, Haelan tumbling after him into the darkness. Cywen fell on top of him, both of them scrambling out of the way as Buddai’s bulk jumped in.
Haelan started heading down the winding tunnel to his den, but Cywen’s grip on his arm stopped him.
‘Wait,’ she hissed. ‘We have to know.’
He understood. Quietly they positioned themselves below the entrance, Buddai with Cywen, Pots with Haelan. They settled into the darkness and waited.
Time passed, marked by the beating of Haelan’s heart, the panting of Pots. His eyes adjusted to the gloom. The smell from the other tunnel crawled up his nose, grew to the point of being unbearable. Then he heard something, from up beyond the entrance, which was just a grey patch against the darkness of the tunnel. A figure passed in front of it, blocking the moonlight, crouching, sniffing, a head moving in. Cywen leaped, grabbing whoever it was, then they were both falling back into the hole. Buddai snarled and jumped, his growl deepening and teeth snapping; there was a muffled curse of pain.
‘No, stop. Haelan, help me,’ a panicked voice shouted. Not Cywen’s.
I know that voice.
They all froze, the newcomer’s face becoming recognizable as a patch of moonlight filtered through the hole.
Trigg.
Haelan laughed and threw his arms around her neck.
‘Welcome to our home,’ Haelan said, standing in his den with the cubs surrounding him, Swain and Sif behind him.
Haelan was overjoyed to see the half-breed girl. Back at Gramm’s hold he had started a fragile friendship with Trigg, and she had helped him escape the hold when Jael’s warband had come for him. To his great shame he had not thought of her since, but now he felt happy to see her familiar face, one that he linked to a happier time.
‘Look who it is,’ Haelan said to Swain and Sif as Trigg fell into the small chamber, a tangle of limbs on the ground. As she unravelled herself, Swain’s expression changed from confusion to horror, then anger.
‘It’s the half-breed traitor,’ he snarled, reaching for a knife at his belt as Haelan jumped to stop him.
‘What’s this all about?’ Cywen said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Back at Gramm’s hold, that filthy half-breed betrayed you, Haelan,’ Swain said, ‘gave you up to Jael’s man. Told him you were hidden in the basement.’
‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ Haelan said. ‘It was Trigg who got me out of the basement, she helped me escape the hold.’
Trigg was sitting in a corner, knees pulled up to her chest, looking just about as miserable as it was possible to be.
‘Then why did you betray Haelan and show Jael’s lot where he was hidden?’ Swain said, frowning at Trigg.
‘To stop them torturing your da, and Gramm,’ Trigg said, shrugging her massive shoulders. ‘I knew Haelan wasn’t down there, because I’d already pulled him out.’
‘Then after, why did you run?’ Swain asked, some of the anger missing from his voice now.
‘Because Wulf was going to gut me,’ Trigg said venomously. ‘He wouldn’t believe me; I tried to tell him. And of course no one thought to defend me, the filthy half-breed.’ She looked down at the floor, a tremor in her voice, tears in her eyes. ‘Wulf’s men chased me, tried to kill me. I ran until my feet bled.’ She shook her head, lip curling in a snarl. ‘Wulf, all of you, believed I would betray you like that. No doubt in your mind.’ She cuffed snot from her nose. ‘Gramm took me in, gave me a home.’ She was almost shouting now, ‘I would never have betrayed him.’
‘Shh,’ Cywen said, ‘or you’ll bring the Kadoshim down upon us.’
‘Why didn’t you come and find me?’ Haelan said, guilt creeping through him now, and making him react as it often did; defensively. ‘Just showed yourself to us. I would have spoken for you, explained to Wulf.’
I never gave her a second thought, after I was safe.
‘I tried,’ Trigg said, quieter now. ‘I followed you all into Forn, tried to get close enough, but there were scouts all the time – good ones, a girl with red hair—’
‘Coralen,’ Cywen said.
‘And Wulf’s men. I knew if I revealed myself they would strike me down before I got close to you.’ Trigg looked at Haelan, a hidden accusation in her eyes.
‘Well, you’ve found me now,’ Haelan said, trying to make his voice sound lighter than he felt. ‘When we are back with Corban and the others, I will explain to them – to Corban, to Wulf. Everything will be all right.’
‘Corban, the Bright Star?’
‘That’s right,’ Haelan said.
‘He’s my brother,’ Cywen added, eyes narrowing as she studied Trigg. ‘How did you get into Drassil?’ she asked Trigg.
‘I followed you.’
‘We’ve been here over half a year,’ Cywen said. ‘You’ve been living amongst us all that time? Hiding?’
‘No,’ Trigg grunted. ‘In Forn, waiting, hoping to see Haelan.’ She was talking to her knees now. ‘I never did,’ she added.
‘That must have been hard, through the winter, with the creatures of the forest,’ Haelan said. Trigg nodded dejectedly and Haelan shuffled forwards and took her hand, though she pulled away at first.
‘I am so sorry, Trigg. Truth be told I forgot about you, and I am ashamed. I was so scared when Gramm’s hold was attacked, terrified. And you helped me, pulled me from the cellar. I would have died without you. And then it was safe, Corban came to our rescue—’
He looked at Trigg, feeling a great wave of sympathy. ‘But I won’t forget you again.’
Trigg squeezed his hand, returned his gaze a moment, then looked away.
‘You think much of this Corban?’ she said.
‘I do,’ Haelan replied. ‘He is our leader. Brave. I trust him, would follow him . . . anywhere.’ He shrugged.
Trigg eyed him thoughtfully.
‘How have you not been caught in Drassil?’ Cywen asked her.
‘I am careful,’ Trigg said with a shifting of her shoulders.
‘Well, you can stay with us now,’ Haelan said, ‘you need not fear being caught. No one will ever find us down here.’
Trigg looked at him through her heavy-lidded eyes.
‘My thanks,’ she said.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
VERADIS
Veradis sat beside the fire-pit, methodically tending to his war gear with whetstone, oil and cloth.
Nathair, two thousand eagle-guard, Lothar, his road from Helveth to Drassil, a warband thousands strong. Maquin was right to suggest we attack Gundul before he reached Drassil, and we should do the same with Lothar. But how? We need more swords. The prisoners in Drassil, how can we get them out?
It was late, the flicker of firelight amongst the trees drawing moths and other things that lurked or hovered just beyond the touch of illumination in the forest. Alcyon and Tain were sitting with a handful of the Benothi, Balur and Brina amongst them. Abruptly, Veradis jumped up and marched over to them, calling to a dozen of his own men as he went.
‘I’ve an idea,’ he said to Alcyon, looking around, grabbin
g branches and shaking them. ‘Here, Alcyon, cut this branch down for me,’ he asked, holding a branch about as thick as his wrist.
Alcyon raised a questioning eyebrow but stood to do it, swinging his axe and shearing the branch with one blow. Veradis drew a knife, stripped the off-shoots and trimmed it.
‘Can I borrow one of your axes, please?’ he asked Alcyon, at the same time cutting a strip from his cloak then binding the axe-haft to the sapling branch, making something that looked like an axe on a spear shaft.
‘Shield wall,’ he said, without looking at his own men gathered behind him, and was excessively pleased when he heard the thud of linden; just by the sound of it he knew that the shields had come together well and in fluid time.
‘You,’ Veradis said, pointing to a seated giant. ‘What is your name?’
‘Fachen,’ the giant said.
‘Well, Fachen, I have an idea, but to test it I need a demonstration. Would you do me the honour of helping me?’
The giant’s brows knitted. ‘All right.’ He stood, as Veradis stepped behind the shield wall and took up a shield and a practice sword. He looked over the rim, saw that the giant Fachen had a war-hammer slung across his back.
‘Attack me,’ Veradis said to him. ‘Break this shield wall apart, if you can.’
Fachen looked at the others, eyes gravitating to Balur, who was looking on with interest, leaning with his back to a tree, arms folded.
Fachen swung his war-hammer two-handed, stepping in and using his weight to add power to his blow, slamming the weapon into Veradis’ shield. It was a mighty strike, rocking Veradis back a step, the shock of it shuddering up his arm, numbing it, but most of the force was dispersed through the interlocked shields.
Fachen’s momentum pushed him on and his body crashed into the shields, rocking them again, but still the line held. Veradis’ harmless practice sword darted out, punching into Fachen’s waist, the giant grunting in pain.
‘You’re dead, or dying,’ Veradis said, lowering his shield.
‘Are you mocking me?’ Fachen asked, taking a step back and hefting his hammer.