by John Gwynne
There was a blood-chilling cry from above and Nathair glanced up to see a handful of Kadoshim swooping from above, diving and stabbing at the men massed before Nathair’s draig, one of them hoisting a red-cloaked warrior into the air and hurling him away. Men scattered, ducking, running from the Kadoshim; more were swooping upon Veradis’ shield wall, and then Nathair’s draig was bursting through the gauntlet of spears, Veradis’ shield wall was straight ahead, Nathair’s own wall to his left. Another screamed order from Nathair and his draig was rearing up onto its hind legs, then slamming down again, onto the massed ranks of the wall in front of it, shields splintered to kindling, bodies beneath them crushed and mashed to pulp.
What if Veradis is down there?
Nathair searched the faces of the dead, peering at the shieldmen who were staggering back from his draig’s onslaught, but he saw Veradis nowhere.
He could be amongst those at my feet, mangled beyond all recognition.
Nathair knew that Veradis always chose to be front and centre of his shield wall, the most hard-fought spot, and Nathair had always respected him for that. Then he remembered Veradis’ words to him earlier.
He has rejected me. Chosen another lord. Another Bright Star. And he told me that Corban would forgive me!
That galled him in so many ways he could hardly bear to think it through.
Veradis has made his choice. And if it has put him on the defeated side, and in front of my draig, then so be it.
‘ON,’ Nathair screamed, urging his draig deeper into the warband, its jaws snapping, crunching, talons raking warriors as it thrust itself further into Veradis’ shield wall, and behind him his own shieldmen came, a wedge into the gap his draig had smashed, and even as Nathair looked down from the vantage of his high saddle he saw Veradis’ shield wall splinter and break apart.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN
CYWEN
Cywen felt power pulsing through her body as she chanted the spell of Unmaking, desperately trying to keep her focus on the cauldron, though she was aware that Asroth had returned to the chamber and was standing before Corban. She heard their blades clash, Storm snarling, Meical shouting. A snatched glance and she saw them, and beyond was Gar, locked in a whirlwind of blows with Calidus and his Jehar Kadoshim.
I must help them.
No, the reason they fight is to buy me time, else it is all for nothing.
‘Cré agus aer, tine agus uisce, ordaímse duit anois, iarann dorcha a chur ar ceal,’ she continued, then something slammed into her body, sending her crashing to the floor. She looked up, saw Rhin striding towards her, shieldmen about her; the one that had struck her was close by.
‘Kill the little bitch,’ Rhin ordered with a flourish of her hand.
Cywen stood shakily and reached a hand inside her cloak as the closest warrior approached her, a handful of Rhin’s shieldmen rushing in behind him.
‘Tine agus lasair,’ Cywen cried as she threw vials at the first warrior. They smashed on his leather harness, and then flame was engulfing him, the man screaming, staggering into the closest warrior; flames danced across to him as well, the stench of burning flesh abruptly redolent in the air. Both men stumbled forwards, arms slapping futilely at the flames, dropping to their knees, crashing to the ground. Other warriors surged past them, giving them a wide berth. Cywen backed away, one hand reaching for a knife hilt.
The warrior nearest to Cywen collapsed with an arrow through his eye, then a form was stepping in front of her, huge, a war-hammer in his hand.
Farrell.
He swung his hammer and caved in the skull of the first warrior, swung again at the next warrior, shattering both the shield and the arm it was strapped to. Farrell kicked him to the floor. Another man staggered backwards and collapsed, an arrow sprouting from his chest. Farrell spun in a circle, slammed his hammer into another man’s chest, lifting him from the ground and hurling him through the air.
And then the rest were hesitating, spreading wider around Farrell. Rhin appeared from behind the pillar of flames that still crackled greedily. A dozen men surrounded her, more than Cywen wanted to see. Without hesitation, Farrell strode towards them. Cywen followed, a throwing knife in each hand. Her first one sank into a warrior’s throat.
Rhin barked a command and the warriors around her were spreading into a line, moving on Farrell, curling around him. Swords flashed, Farrell blocking with his hammer-shaft, swinging great looping strokes to give himself space, but there were too many men. A blow landed on his shoulder, another on his hip, blood welling, and he dropped to one knee. Cywen hurled another knife but a warrior caught it on his shield. An arrow sank into a thigh, staggering a man, but more closed on Farrell. Then Coralen was there, swirling through Rhin’s warriors like a violent storm, sword and wolven claws leaving trails of blood in her wake, men falling, dead before they realized it. The survivors broke and ran. Cywen hurried to Farrell, helped him stand with a grimace, and then all three of them were moving on Rhin.
Rhin backed away, pulled a knife from her belt and slashed her hand, with a flick of her wrist sent droplets of blood spattering over them.
‘Sruthán,’ Rhin snarled and the blood on Cywen’s cloak and vest began to hiss and smoke, burning through wool, leather and flesh. She heard Farrell grunt with pain, even as pain bloomed on her own arm, skin sizzling.
‘Uisce,’ Cywen cried, slicing the palm of her own hand with a knife and spraying droplets of blood over herself and her companions. The burning on her arm ceased.
‘After her,’ Cywen cried as Rhin backed away, threading through the combat of the chamber. They followed, Cywen glimpsing Corban trading blows with Asroth, a flash of fur as Storm rolled entwined with a Kadoshim, then she saw Rhin, close to the trunk of the great tree. Cywen, Coralen and Farrell spread around her, a half-circle, Rhin pressing her back to the bark.
‘Nowhere left to run,’ Cywen said to her.
‘You are young,’ Rhin said. ‘And naive. Much can change in a few moments.’
She started to chant, ‘Cloch a bheith bog, fiachmhúchta bás.’
Cywen took a step towards Rhin and found she couldn’t – her feet were sinking into the stone. A rush of panic and she jerked a foot away, but the stone clung to it like honey, sticking, holding, and with her sudden shift of weight her other foot sank deeper, up to the ankle. She looked about wildly, saw the same was happening to Farrell and Coralen.
‘You see,’ Rhin said with a smile, ‘the ground can shift under your feet very quickly if you’re unprepared. And I’m always prepared.’ She raised her hand, mouth opening for another spell. There was the whistle of air, a thunk, and then Rhin was staggering back, a knife hilt protruding from her chest.
‘You power-mad bitch,’ Cywen said coldly. ‘So much death in Ardan because of your ambition. The assassination of Uthan, Prince of Narvon, the ambush in the Darkwood, where my Ronan fell. Setting Morcant loose like a feral dog.’
Rhin swayed, leaned against the wall. Blood seeped around the knife hilt. Her hand reached up and grabbed it, a grimace of pain, and then she pulled it free, stood straight and smiled calmly.
Cywen threw another knife, but Rhin moved like a snake so it slammed into her arm instead of her chest. She staggered a step then ripped the knife free and hurled it back at Cywen.
‘I’m harder to kill than I look, little girl,’ she said with a sneer.
Rhin started to mutter, the air about Cywen rippling. Abruptly, Rhin stopped, staggered and fell back, a look of surprise on her face as she looked down and saw one of Dath’s white-fletched arrows protruding from her belly. She plucked at it.
Another knife slammed into her chest, high, then another arrow was sprouting from her chest, throwing her back against the tree, another knife into her gut. An arrow through her throat, blood welling from all the wounds, seeping into her clothes. With a sigh she slipped slowly down the great tree, leaving a trail of blood.
The ground around Cywen’s feet solidified. She steppe
d free of it and stood for a moment over Rhin’s corpse.
‘For Ronan,’ she whispered.
‘The spell,’ Coralen said, and Cywen ran back to the cauldron, words of power forming on her lips.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN
VERADIS
Veradis felt the shield wall breaking before it actually happened.
He was standing a dozen rows back, had rotated his position for the first time since the shields had first locked on the field, and that was only because he could barely keep his fist clamped around his sword hilt because of a numbing cramp in the muscles of his hand. But he was worried that the shield wall would not hold without him there, in the heart of the front row, where the storm of iron was fiercest. A shield wall was made of many men, but, this day, he also knew that he had been the glue that had stopped it from collapsing a hundred times. That was no boast, and it was impossible to hold a whole line, to be at every point where a crack or fissure was forming between shields or within men’s minds, but what he had done was give his men heart. He had shouted himself hoarse, praised men for every effort he witnessed, and a hundred others he’d imagined. He had mocked and taunted the enemy and bellowed encouragement to his own sword-brothers whenever he’d had breath, and he’d slain more of his enemy than he could remember.
And so they had held, for over half a day against overwhelming numbers.
But now his shield wall was dying.
He felt it like a stuttered sigh that rippled through the ranks, a death rattle before that last breath. It had followed a crash that rocked men on their feet even as far back as Veradis’ twelfth row.
Veradis heard the roar of Nathair’s draig, saw Nathair’s outline rearing above the rim of his shield.
His draig is amongst us.
A scream from above drew his attention to the skies. A swarm of winged beings were fighting, some in dark mail with great bat-like wings, against white-winged warriors. They were twisting and turning through the air in the way that Veradis had once seen two falcons fighting over the same prey, a plump pigeon that had taken the opportunity and fled.
I hope that is not what we are to both of those sky-borne warbands. Prey.
Even as he stared at them, Veradis saw figures sweep down from above, dark-winged demons wielding sword and spear, stabbing and hacking at Veradis’ men, screeching war-cries and death that chilled the blood. Veradis felt his own courage waver, and in that moment he knew his shield wall was broken.
Nathair’s draig was rampaging through the remnants of Veradis’ ranks, some men still holding, frozen out of fear more than anything else, the draig bellowing. Veradis saw deep wounds along its side and realized it was badly injured.
Nathair’s eagle-guard were advancing, trampling over Veradis’ fallen men, swords stabbing down to finish off the wounded.
‘TO ME,’ Veradis cried, rallying his scattered men.
Deeper in the battlefield Veradis saw groups of Vin Thalun, Jehar, white-cloaks and red-cloaks engaged in battle, beyond them great beasts rampaging across the field.
Draigs? Where did they come from? They were trampling all about them indiscriminately; as Veradis stared dumbfounded he saw one bend its neck and pick something up from the ground, then turn and lumber back towards the gates of Drassil. One followed it, one remaining. Closer, Veradis saw a large knot of giants that were pushing towards him, but here Veradis was surrounded by only the fallen or the fleeing.
Then roaring rang across the battlefield again and Veradis’ head snapped back to Nathair. In horror he watched as the draig snatched a man of Ripa, its jaws clamping around the warrior’s head and shoulder, lifting him from the ground, shaking him like a hound with a rat, then flinging the dying man through the air.
A hot anger filled Veradis then, and he sprinted towards Nathair, picking up speed with each step, stooping to grab a spear from a fallen red-cloak and skidding to a halt a few score paces from Nathair.
‘NATHAIR!’ Veradis bellowed, brandishing his spear at his former King.
Nathair’s face twisted as he spotted Veradis yelling his challenge. He regarded Veradis a long, drawn-out moment, and then he bent forwards in his saddle, whispered in the draig’s ear, and it was charging him.
The ground thundered, taloned feet tearing up the ground, the draig opening its huge jaws to roar, teeth like daggers, saliva dripping. Nathair leaned low in his saddle, sword arm rising. Veradis saw it all as if in slow motion, set his feet and stood his ground as the draig closed the distance at a terrifying speed – forty paces away, thirty, twenty, a deafening roar echoing from its jaws.
Veradis hefted the spear in his hands, found the balance and hurled it, straight into the draig’s open maw.
The draig screamed, blood exploding from its mouth in a great gout. It thundered on towards Veradis, a spasm rippling through its body, legs failing, its momentum carrying it. Veradis leaped to the side, too late; the draig slammed into his leg, spinning him like a twig, talons raking his torso, and Veradis was flying through the air, hot pain igniting in his chest, his knee, and then the ground was slamming into him, driving the breath from his body. He tried to focus, saw the draig collapsing, ploughing into the earth, an avalanche of muscle and bone, Nathair hurled from the saddle, disappearing in the dust cloud that rose up and engulfed the draig.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN
CAMLIN
Camlin rode up a slope and into the trees, pausing for a moment to look back.
The battlefield was chaos, the skies filled with aerial combat, Kadoshim and Ben-Elim looping and diving, Edana and her cavalry still holding against Geraint, and further south it looked as if the shield walls had disintegrated, the field turned to a chaotic blood-soaked melee.
Are those draigs?
For a moment he thought of riding back, doing what he could to help, but then a face filled his mind.
Rafe.
Camlin had tracked him through the battlefield, lost him and found him a dozen times, always too far away to risk one of the half-dozen arrows he’d managed to snatch from corpses, and then he had seen Rafe break away from the combat, riding up the slope that marked the northern edge of the battlefield towards a wall of trees. A grey hound had been padding along beside him. Rafe had disappeared into the forest, and Camlin knew that he was fleeing.
Can’t let him get away this time. If by some miracle we win this battle Edana’ll never be safe, with him lurking in the shadows. And besides, he killed Baird and is responsible for Halion . . .
At the thought of his friends, Camlin felt the weight of grief shift in his belly and gritted his teeth. With a click to his horse he rode into the trees. The world turned to twilight, shades of grey dappled by the shift of leafless branches high above. He came upon an ancient road of stone slabs, moss-covered and crumbling. Fresh hoof-marks were easy to spot, and Camlin picked up his pace, his bow and reins in one hand, his other resting gently on the fletching of an arrow in his belt-quiver.
He reined in, cocking his head to one side, straining his hearing.
What’s that?
A resonance on the edge of sound, a shift in the forest. His horse whinnied, ears back.
Something’s not right.
Camlin swung down from his saddle and crouched on the old road, one palm flat against cold lichen and granite.
A vibration trembled into his fingertips, faint as a whisper. Stones skittered down the embankment of the road.
And then Rafe was bursting from thick foliage, his magnificent stallion powering him onto the road and straight at Camlin, sword raised high, only a dozen paces away. Somehow Camlin managed to nock and draw an arrow, still crouching, Rafe’s horse almost upon him. He loosed; Rafe yanked on his reins and swayed, the arrow hissing past his head, nicking his ear, then Camlin was drawing his sword, rushing in close to the skewbald stallion, stabbing at Rafe.
Swords clashed, Rafe sweeping Camlin’s strike away, a flurry of blows as Rafe tried to cave in Camlin’s skull, the str
ength in each blow beating Camlin down, sending him staggering. He tried to get in close again, but Rafe’s stallion’s teeth were snapping at him, and then he was jumping away, realized he was close to his own horse and leaped at it, grabbing the saddle, trying to heave himself up.
Rafe’s stallion reared, hooves lashing out, and Camlin’s horse was screaming, bolting from the road, dragging Camlin a few score paces before he lost his grip and fell with a thud to the ground, cold stone slamming into his face, then he was rolling, slowly coming to a halt. He pushed himself up onto one knee, shook his head, reached for his bow but couldn’t find it.
‘’Bout done with you putting arrows in me, old man,’ Rafe said. He’d reined his horse in, was smiling at Camlin. He rolled his shoulder, grimaced at the pain of Camlin’s last arrow.
How does he keep recovering from my arrows? I need to have me a drink from that starstone cup.
‘Thought I didn’t know you were sniffing after me,’ Rafe sneered. ‘I saw you. Don’t think you’re the huntsman you like to think you are.’
Damned if I’m going to let this snot-nosed runt be the end of me.
Camlin tried to stand but felt an explosion of pain in his knee and his leg buckled. He heard Rafe laugh, then spur his horse on, hooves thundering towards him.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN
RAFE
Rafe felt the joy of victory flood through him. Camlin lay a crumpled heap on the road ahead of him, no way of escaping his stallion’s charge.
I’ve been looking forward to this moment a long time. And I’m about done being shot by him. Knew I had to do something about him, that I’d never get a chance at skewering Edana with him sniffing after me. Looks like my trick worked, luring him into the forest, setting an ambush.