by John Gwynne
Looking at the faces of the warriors about him, all men of Domhain, he saw no shock or surprise in their eyes. A glance at Edana’s warriors showed the same expressions, satisfaction and joy in a plan well executed.
Of course they knew. Rhin, it looks as if you’ve been out-betrayed! That is not going to go down well with her, not at all. Though she does have one last die to roll. Me.
Rafe ducked his head down, suddenly finding himself in the middle of his enemy’s warband. The last thing he wanted was for Edana or Halion or Vonn to see him.
Conall was looking up at the walls of Drassil, and Rafe turned and stared. He could clearly see Rhin standing beside Calidus and Uthas, could just about feel the rage that was contorting her features.
‘Do you think Rhin’s got the message?’ Conall said to Halion and Edana.
‘I would imagine so,’ Edana said.
‘Just to make sure,’ Conall said, and he cupped his hands to his mouth.
‘Rhin, you’re Queen of Domhain NO MORE,’ he cried. ‘So you can KISS MY ARSE.’ He dropped his breeches and bared his backside to Drassil’s wall, waved it around a little, whooping and laughing, more guffaws rippling through both warbands. Even Rafe chuckled.
‘Do you think she understands now?’ Conall asked, still waving his backside in the general direction of Drassil.
A high-pitched, rage-filled screech rang out from the walls, drifting across the plain to them.
‘I suspect she does,’ Edana said with a grin.
Then horn blasts were ringing out from the fortress, riders spilling out from the gates, forming up on the plain before the walls.
‘Geraint,’ Conall said. ‘He’s a good man. I like him. And a good battlechief. Loyal. It’ll be a hard fight.’
They watched as more and more riders poured through the gates, as many as Conall’s warband, then more, many more, and still more flooding from the gates.
Conall pulled up his breeches and climbed back into his horse’s saddle.
‘Time to spill some blood,’ he snarled.
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
CORALEN
Coralen rode beneath high-branched trees up the slope of a gentle hill, threading through the fringes of Forn; Corban and the others were behind her, Storm a shadow ahead of her. The noise of fighting swirled up to them from the battlefield. Riding away from it was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do, and she knew she was not the only one feeling its pull. At the crest of the hill her horse’s hooves cracked on ancient flagstones, remnants of the giants’ road that Jael of Isiltir had discovered and rebuilt.
Coralen reined in and waited for the others to catch up with her. Corban and Gar, Farrell, Laith, Dath, Kulla, Cywen and Brina. They joined her on the road and for a moment they all hesitated, looking back onto Drassil and the battlefield.
To the south Nathair’s and Veradis’ shield walls were locked together, like two competing bulls, and they seemed to form the core about which other warbands swirled and fought, Coralen glimpsing giants, a draig, red-cloaks and white. Closer still were a host of mounted warriors arrayed along the treeline of Forn, thousands strong, a blonde-haired figure riding along its line, shaking her sword in the air.
Edana. Not the princess I remember, struggling to be heard in Eremon’s court.
Coralen’s breath caught in her chest as her eyes found Halion, and beside him, Conall. Her brothers.
Halion was right, then. Conall has joined them.
She grinned.
Edana’s combined warband was facing another host of horsemen, drawn up before the walls of Drassil, a sea of black and gold. From Coralen’s vantage point she could see that, even with Conall’s warband swelling Edana’s ranks, they were still outnumbered by the enemy massing before them.
Yet it was the host in grey that charged first.
It reached them as a distant rumble; the warband moved forwards slowly, gaining speed and bursting into a gallop, a huge roar of battle-cries ringing out over the plain, and then Rhin’s warband of black and gold was moving too, slower to the gallop, but gaining momentum eventually, and their line was wider and thicker.
The two charging warbands came together, a percussive thunderclap of sound booming outwards, rippling up to them on the slope as six or seven thousand men and mounts slammed into each other. The flanks of the larger host curled around the edges of Edana’s warband.
They sat on their mounts a long moment, on the brink of riding back down, watching the battle unfold. Watching friends and comrades fighting for the future of the Banished Lands, fighting for their lives, and maybe dying, right before their eyes.
‘We can’t help them,’ Brina snapped. ‘If we stay, all will die. We have to go. Now.’
‘Let’s go,’ Corban snarled. ‘Let’s end this.’
And he yanked on his reins, kicked his horse on, and then they were all riding hard down the giants’ road, into Forn and away from the battlefield.
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
UTHAS
Uthas stared out onto the battlefield, his knuckles white around his spear shaft. The cries and screams of battle were close and immediate now, before the gates of Drassil was a great heaving maelstrom of bloodshed. The charge of Edana’s cavalry had carved deep into Geraint’s larger force, carrying many grey-cloaked warriors close to the fortress’ walls. The field before Uthas was a bucking, heaving mass of warriors, horses screaming, rearing, kicking, men slashing and stabbing and dying.
This is no simple victory, the sweeping away of a desperate rabble forced to fight. Numbers are still in our favour, and we have reserves behind us that our enemy cannot counter, but this will be no easy triumph. If we win at all it will be a close and hard-fought affair. Now is the time to send us out, to strike and crush our enemy while they are engaged and pinned down.
Uthas shared a look with Salach, knew that he was thinking the same thoughts. They both looked to Calidus.
The Kadoshim was staring out at the battlefield with an expression that shifted between fury, concern and disgust. Beside him Rhin was caught up in some bout of twisted rage, her fingers curling, lips twisting as half-whispered curses bubbled from her mouth.
Conall’s betrayal has hit her hard.
Calidus took a long, shuddering breath, barely controlling his rage, then he turned and called down into the courtyard, ordering the remaining eagle-guard within the fortress to prepare for battle. Men ran from the courtyard, yelling orders.
‘Lykos, gather your men,’ Calidus said, turning to the Lord of the Vin Thalun. ‘Every last Vin Thalun warrior except those guarding the Treasures – take them now and turn this battle.’
‘Aye,’ Lykos grunted. He turned and stalked down the stairwell, bellowing to his men.
Good, with the Vin Thalun and the eagle-guard that will be another three thousand men into the field. If nothing else, we will overwhelm our foe.
‘And you, Uthas. Take your people and crush your enemies. Stain the ground red with Ethlinn’s and Balur’s blood.’
Uthas felt a ripple of excitement, part fear, part longing. His dream was so close to fruition, a spear-thrust away.
‘Drassil shall be emptied and our warband will roll over my enemy like a great flood,’ Calidus growled.
Good. As we should have done earlier. Calidus’ anxiety to protect the Treasures has overwhelmed his judgement, and he has underestimated this Corban’s abilities as a strategist.
‘What of the Treasures?’ Rhin asked, seeming to have mastered her rage. There was worry in her voice.
‘Indeed,’ Calidus snarled. ‘Now they will only be guarded by me and my Kadoshim, thanks to your man’s betrayal. You have much to atone for.’ Calidus gave her a humourless smile. ‘You will stay at my side and pray that the Treasures remain safe.’
‘Salach,’ Uthas said – his shieldman grunted a response – then louder, ‘Benothi, with me.’
And Uthas strode from the battlements, the footfall of his clans-people drumming on stone beh
ind him.
Uthas was the first through Drassil’s gates, Salach and Eisa behind him like wings, the Benothi stomping out onto the battlefield in their iron-shod boots, war-hammers and battle-axes unslung from backs, gripped by grim-faced warriors.
It was very different down here from watching the battle unfurl from Drassil’s high walls. The stench of blood and faeces hit Uthas first, then screams, battle-cries, iron on iron, the thud of flesh slamming against flesh, shield against shield, all mixing into one deafening din, swirling and eddying, rising and falling as Uthas strode through the carnage.
He led his clan, skirting the struggle between Geraint’s and Edana’s mounted warbands, aiming at the battle-storm that was raging between the two shield walls, for it was there that he saw giants. He glanced back one more time, reassured himself that he was not alone, and glimpsed Lykos leading his Vin Thalun, running out through Drassil’s gates. There were no organized ranks amongst them like the eagle-guard – more like a tempestuous flood, and they swirled south, following Uthas.
Lykos thinks the same as me, better pickings amongst the enemy on foot.
Uthas set his eyes on a giant to the south, surrounded by white-cloaked enemies, sheathed in iron. He started to run, great loping strides.
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
CYWEN
Cywen suppressed a shiver of fear as they rode past a huge carcass, its flesh mostly gone, picked clean by the forest’s myriad predators. As she looked at it she could still see its flat-muzzled skull and long teeth bearing down on her, scythed claws raking the earth.
For an instant she wished that Buddai were with her, but he was still limping from his last encounter with a draig. So she’d left him tied up at their camp hospice, with Sif and Swain keeping an eye on him. Buddai had not been happy about it, but the bone of a large boar had helped to soften the blow.
Haelan was sitting in front of her, her arms around him holding the reins. He’d followed them into the forest, Pots and Shadow with him, and the trio had quickly been discovered by Coralen and Storm. Brina had interrogated him and to Cywen’s surprise Haelan had stood his ground. He’d guessed where they were headed and was adamant that he could help. So Brina had let him stay.
And then the smell hit her.
Draig dung.
The horses started to whinny and snort, ears twitching fearfully.
‘We’ll have to walk from here,’ Coralen said. Cywen and Coralen led the way.
The smell became progressively worse, and then Cywen saw the dung hills. The group crept forwards until they saw the rim of the slope that went down to the draig mound and the tunnel that led to their lair. All of them fell to their bellies and crawled the final part of the way until they lay in a row along the slope’s rim, peering over.
‘Well, I’d best get on with it, then,’ Kulla said matter-of-factly.
Dath caught hold of her hand.
‘I don’t want you to do this,’ he said.
‘I know, but this is one of those things that has to be done, and I’m the best one for it.’
‘I can run fast,’ Dath said.
‘Aye, but not as fast as me.’
Dath stood and stared at her, face twisting and knotting with worry.
Kulla stroked his face and smiled.
‘I love you, my Dath,’ she said, then wrapped a strip of cloth around her mouth and one around her eyes. She reached out, hand touching one of the dung mounds, and then she threw herself into it.
The stench was overwhelming, an explosion that assaulted Cywen’s senses, even from where she was lying on the slope’s rim. She saw Dath sway as the smell hit him.
Kulla rose from the ground smothered from head to toe in draig dung. She pulled the two strips of cloth off, blinked at Dath and then strode down the slope to the draig lair. She looked back once, at the cave-like entrance, and then she was gone.
Dath came and lay down beside the rest of them, looking about as miserable as it was humanly possible. Corban reached out and squeezed his arm.
They all lay there and waited, then Cywen heard a noise. A rumbling roar, deep underground, echoing out through the tunnel entrance. More roaring, louder, overlapping, and then Kulla exploded from the passage entrance, a draig egg tucked under one arm, speeding straight up the slope and onto the flat forest floor, still running as fast as she could in the opposite direction from her companions.
Then the draigs were coming: one, two, three of them bursting from the passage that led into their lair. The three of them fanned into a line on the slope, pausing to flicker and taste the air with their tongues, then their huge-taloned claws were hurling them up the slope and into the forest after Kulla, even though she had run so fast that Cywen could see no sign of her.
They can smell their eggs better than they can see.
And that was entirely the point.
Corban and Brina had gone over the plan with the others a thousand times. The fastest runner, covered in dung, snatched an egg and then ran, leading the draigs out and away from their lair for as long as the runner could manage. Meanwhile, the others would take advantage of the draigs’ absence and head into the tunnels. When Kulla was at her limit the plan was for her to hurl the egg away and freeze. Cywen was certain that being covered with draig dung and remaining motionless would make anyone undetectable to the draigs. It had worked for her.
‘Come on,’ Corban hissed, and then all of them were running down the slope, hurrying into the darkness of the tunnel. Storm, Shadow and Pots followed last.
Cywen ran behind Corban and Coralen. Haelan sped ahead of them, his torch leading them through a long passage. It opened up into the chamber that contained the nest. Haelan slowed to look at the eggs, piled in the middle like charcoal-stones in a forge. He ran on, taking an exit almost directly opposite the one they’d entered the chamber by, leading them on, deeper and deeper into the labyrinth.
At the next turning Corban called for a stop and Haelan paused. Corban counted, making sure they were all still together, Storm and Shadow’s eyes glowed in the torchlight.
Cywen looked at the fork in the tunnel before them, and for the life of her could not remember which way led to the roots and crack in the roof that burrowed into Drassil.
‘Haelan,’ she hissed, ‘do you know which way to go?’
‘Of course,’ Haelan said, holding his torch high. ‘It’s that way,’ and he pointed to the right-hand fork.
‘How do you know?’ Cywen asked.
Haelan waved the torch lower to the ground. Cywen saw something on the ground flash white. Then she remembered.
‘Sif’s stones,’ Haelan said with a grin.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
CAMLIN
Camlin stood in the treeline and tracked a white-cloaked warrior who was behind Wulf with his sword raised high. Camlin loosed, his arrow punching through the warrior’s throat; the man’s legs buckled and he tumbled into Wulf.
Wulf spun around, axe pulled back to strike, face twisted in a snarl, and then he saw the arrow, realized his enemy was dead. He shoved the corpse away, looked to the trees and saw Camlin grinning at him, dipped his head in thanks and then returned to the fray, smashing a white-cloak in the face with the boss of his shield, swinging at his head with his axe.
Camlin searched for another target.
At first he had loosed arrow after arrow at the white-cloaked warriors massed on the left flank of Nathair’s shield wall. It had been too good an opportunity to miss and the combined forces of his and Dath’s archers had inflicted vicious damage upon the survivors of Lothar’s warband.
It was harder to get a clean shot now, as the hand-to-hand fighting was a furious whirlwind, white-cloaks were interspersed with Wulf and his crew, Kadoshim and Jehar, as well as a handful of giants. Balur One-Eye was hacking at white-cloaks and Kadoshim alike with terrifying fury, sending heads and limbs flying, mist-wraiths forming in the air all about him as he tried to carve a way to Nathair’s shield wall, which was wider and deeper
than Veradis’ and looked to be hammering ten hells out of the smaller wall of shields.
A cloud of smoke engulfed Camlin and his crew, rolling out onto the plain, and a wave of heat warmed Camlin’s back, the sound of crackling and wood splitting too close for his liking. He glanced back, saw smoke and flame hungrily spreading through the forest.
Time to join the party, he thought and shouldered his bow.
‘Enough tickling them,’ Camlin shouted, drawing his sword. ‘Time to show them we’re more than elm and feathers.’ With that he was running out from the treeline and shouting, ‘FOR ARDAN AND EDANA,’ as his battle-cry, which took him by surprise.
He slammed into a white-cloak, hacking down between shoulder and neck. The man’s chainmail held, but Camlin felt the warrior’s collarbone snap, kicked his legs from under him and stabbed down into his throat as his momentum carried him on, swinging two-handed at the next warrior in front of him, sword taking the enemy high in the head. Camlin kicked him to the ground and looked for someone else to kill.
But what was left of the white-cloaks on this flank were gone, either dead, dying or swallowed into the ranks of Nathair’s shield wall.
That still left a handful of Kadoshim, but Akar and his Jehar were amongst this flank in all their righteous fury, teamed with Wulf’s axe-wielders and Balur and a dozen other giants. Mist-wraiths were forming in the sky with great swiftness.
Then it was just Nathair’s shield wall that was facing them.
Camlin stood and stared at it as he gathered his breath and watched Balur lay into it with his long axe.
That wall’s an amazing beast, put together like a chainmail shirt, weapons bouncing off it.
Camlin watched in horror as he saw a handful of Wulf’s men attack it, their axes bouncing off the interlocked shields, short swords stabbing out as the axe-wielders moved too close, falling away with stab wounds in bellies, legs, throats. Camlin saw five men fall in as many heartbeats.