by John Gwynne
‘Good,’ Jael said with a smile. ‘Now I am confident that I have my assurance.’ He strode from the hall into the pale sunlight and mounted his horse.
Ulfilas was behind him, followed by all in the hall. Sif struggled as Ulfilas climbed into his saddle and he shook her.
‘Be still, girl, or you’ll get a slap,’ he snarled.
The boy in Dag’s care lunged for him but Dag grabbed his tunic and clumped him across the back of the head with his knife hilt. The boy collapsed to the ground. His dog stood protectively over him, growling at Dag.
Jael laughed at the sight of it. Dag kicked the dog, sending it rolling away with a whine, then hoisted the lad up and slung him across his saddle.
‘You are now my eyes in the north,’ Jael cried. ‘The boy and his guardian. Bring them to me, or send me word of them, and your kin will be returned to you unharmed.’ With that Jael turned his horse and cantered out of the courtyard.
Ulfilas caught up with Jael on the long road that skirted the paddocks.
‘Think you made an impression.’
‘Aye. Gramm won’t be forgetting his new king.’
‘Didn’t get a new horse, though,’ Ulfilas said as he looked into the paddocks.
‘Next time,’ Jael replied.
‘Do you trust Gramm now?’
‘I don’t trust anyone, Ulfilas, not even you, though you’ve been my shieldman since before I could hold a sword.’
Nor I you.
‘But trust is overrated, as are love, loyalty and devotion. Fear, Ulfilas. That is what is important to me. As long as he fears me, all will be well.’
Ulfilas looked back at Gramm’s hold, ringed by its stout wooden walls. Ulfilas had not seen fear on Gramm’s face when he’d first greeted the new King. No. What had swept Gramm, only for an instant and quickly masked, had been something else entirely.
It was hatred.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TUKUL
Tukul sat close to Corban, patiently waiting as the warband prepared to leave. Idly he leaned forward and rubbed one of Daria’s ears; she whickered quietly. All were gathered and waiting upon Corban, who was in close conversation with Brina and Ethlinn. They parted, and Corban pulled himself onto Shield’s back, the stallion stamping a hoof and snorting, making Daria whicker in response next to him.
Something has changed within him. Yesterday he was unsure, worry leaking from him. Now he looks . . . resolved.
Corban looked about at the faces watching him.
‘Foes ahead and foes behind,’ Corban yelled. ‘The only choice to make is who do we fight first. We’ll head south, see what Rhin’s warband thinks of us. The only running we’ll do is at them.’
Tukul felt a thrill go through him, part fear, part excitement. He welcomed it. Corban stood tall in his saddle, Storm pacing around Shield. ‘We’ll leave the Kadoshim for another day.’ Laughter rippled through them at that. Corban raised a fist. ‘Truth and courage, and I’ll see you all on the other side.’
Tukul heard his voice joined to many others in a shared battle-cry.
‘Craf, Fech, I need you both now,’ Corban said.
Both birds were perched on Brina’s saddle and regarded Corban suspiciously with their beady eyes.
‘Please.’
‘Fech will fly. You asked nicely.’ The raven dipped his head in what looked like a mock-bow.
‘Thank you,’ Corban said, lips twitching. ‘Fech, you fly ahead, give us warning of Rhin’s warband. Craf, see if you can spot Nathair and the Kadoshim.’
Craf and Fech flapped into the air, spiralled upwards together, then separated – one heading south, the other north.
The warband jerked into motion, Corban leading a central column along the crumbling road. A number of the Jehar horses now bore an extra rider – the villagers who had escaped the Kadoshim in the woods.
Only a score or so.
Meical had counselled to leave them, but Corban had steadfastly refused.
‘They will slow us,’ Meical had told him.
Corban had looked horrified. ‘I cannot abandon them to the Kadoshim.’
‘Leaving them is not a death sentence; they will likely survive here, all they need do is hide until the Kadoshim have passed by.’
‘And what if the Kadoshim find their trail? What if the Kadoshim are hungry?’
They had all seen how the Kadoshim in the woods had started feasting on those they caught, and the survivors were telling similar tales from the attack on their village.
‘This is war, Corban. Hard decisions must be made – they can make the difference between victory and defeat.’
Corban had asked the villagers if they would rather accompany the warband or stay and hide. Not one of them wanted to stay behind.
‘I’ll not leave them,’ Corban said stubbornly, and that had been the end of that. Meical shook his head but said no more.
Our Ben-Elim is finding his Bright Star less compliant than he expected. Tukul had just shrugged. An extra score we can absorb. And besides, we may have some spare horses soon. Those of our own dead or of our enemies.
They’d been travelling a little while when a squawking drew Tukul’s attention. There was something frantic about it. He turned and looked back, saw a black dot in the sky, growing larger.
Is that one of ours? He could not remember which bird had flown north – Craf or Fech? Something was in the sky higher above it, another black dot, suddenly streaking downwards.
‘Craf!’ Brina shouted, and she was riding back. Corban followed her, the warband slowing, rippling to a halt. Tukul wheeled his mare around and galloped after Corban.
Craf had just reached the woods when the hawk hit him.
Brina screamed.
There was an explosion of feathers and the two birds spun together, Craf squawking in terror, the hawk’s talon’s snatching at the smaller bird.
The whole warband watched helplessly as the birds fought and twisted through the air. Dath had his bow strung and an arrow nocked, but it was impossible to take a clear shot.
Then another bird crashed into them.
Fech.
There was another explosion of feathers and one of the birds dropped straight down, plummeting into the tree canopy. There was a crashing and snapping of branches, then a black form fell to the ground. It flapped feebly, one wing twisted and not moving.
‘Craf hurt,’ he squawked as Brina rushed to the crow, sweeping him up in her arms.
Above the trees Fech and the hawk twisted, separated. An arrow whistled through the air, missed the hawk by a handspan, then they were together again, surging past the trees, over the meadow, hurtling towards the river. They were low now, skimming the meadow grass. The ground rumbled as Balur broke into a run, chasing after the two birds.
They crashed into a flat-topped boulder at the river’s edge, the two birds rolling apart. The hawk righted itself first, and with a flap of wings leaped upon the still-tumbling Fech and with another beat of its wings it was airborne, rising, gripping Fech tight. An arrow skittered off the rock, just missing it.
More arrows sliced the air as it rose – and the hawk veered, Fech wriggling feebly in its grip. The hawk hovered overhead a moment and gave a savage twist of its talons. Tukul heard the crackle of tiny bones snapping. The hawk’s beak slashed down, came away trailing droplets of blood and it dropped Fech. The old raven plummeted like a stone to the ground, hitting it with a dull thump.
The hawk rose swiftly, more arrows sailing past it. In moments it was out of range, flying north. Balur reached Fech and scooped him up, wings dangling. The giant’s face twisted and Tukul knew that Fech was dead.
They rode in silence along the crumbling road, a grim mood hovering over the company after the death of Fech.
He was only a bird, and three of my sword-kin died this morning fighting the Kadoshim. Yet Fech’s death still seemed to affect them all.
Corban had said that he’d recognized the hawk, had sworn that it had belonged to a trader who
had betrayed him in the mountains near Dun Vaner. He called it Kartala. A servant of the enemy. That would make sense. And now we are no longer the watchers, but the watched.
Tukul shrugged to himself.
No use worrying about things I cannot change. A battle is ahead of us. That I can do something about.
It was highsun now, and they had made good time. The terrain was shifting from wooded hills to rolling moorland. We should be upon them soon. He felt the reassuring weight of his sword strapped across his back and his hand dropped to the axe at his side, gifted to him by Wulf at Gramm’s hold. It had served him well so far, split more than one skull. And there will be more to come.
To Tukul’s left Corban called out, glancing down the slope of the road’s embankment to the white-foaming river.
It is time, then. Tukul liked Corban’s plan; there was a simplicity to it that appealed to him. The only issue he had was the part that Brina and the giantess had been asked to play. Things could go drastically wrong where the earth power was concerned.
Brina was riding close by, Ethlinn the giantess striding beside her. They shared a look and started to chant, long rhythmic sentences in a language Tukul did not understand. Meical added his voice to theirs.
Ahead of them the river began to churn, a white mist boiling out of it, spreading across the meadow, creeping up the embankment and across the road, covering the warband. Tukul looked across to his son, riding just behind Corban. The mist swirled about their horses’ hooves like cords of silk, rapidly expanding, creeping higher until it engulfed them.
Riding in the mist was strange. It limited Tukul’s vision, Gar and Corban becoming fleeting shadows. He risked a glance behind him, at the handful of Jehar and giants he saw staring grim-faced back at him, then focused on the space in front of him, straining his ears for any hint of their enemy.
There was a scream to his left, a crash and a wild neighing, then silence. In front of him a shape loomed, solidifying in heartbeats into a warrior on horseback, his face twisted in panic, clutching at a horn hanging at his belt.
One of their scouts. We are close, then.
With a hiss, Tukul drew his sword and took the warrior’s head, blood jetting startlingly bright against the white mist. Sounds rang out along the line of the warband – similar encounters. Tukul felt a wave of exultation sweep him. Riding into battle with my son, behind the Seren Disglair. Praise be to Elyon, Lord of Hosts, that I lived to see this day. May our hearts stay pure and our swords sharp. He laughed, long and loud, adrenalin pumping through his veins. Now they were moving at a canter. Tukul yearned to kick his horse into a gallop, but he held back. The mist started to thin about them, evaporating. A horn blast rang out nearby, roughly where Tukul judged Corban should be.
‘With me,’ Tukul yelled, guiding his horse right, sweeping out from the warband. A hundred warriors followed him. They left the dissipating mist behind them, the sunlight suddenly bright, making Tukul blink.
The enemy were there, spread along the wide road, a mix of mounted warriors and men on foot, those mostly gathered about the wains that brought up the rear of their column. Three, four hundred swords. Tukul could see expressions of shock and horror upon his enemies’ faces as their warband emerged from the mist, wolven and giants snarling and yelling battle cries.
I think even I would be scared at the sight, Tukul thought.
A moment later there was a great crash as Corban and the bulk of the warband smashed into the front lines of the enemy. He saw Storm leap high, tear a rider from his saddle. Tukul’s eyes searched for Gar, thought he saw him, a curved sword rising and falling. Fear for his son fluttered in his belly. He will live or he will die, he told himself, dragging his eyes away.
He touched his reins, guiding his horse into an arc that led back towards the road, fixed his eyes on a pocket of warriors who seemed to be organizing quicker than the rest. They were gathered about the wains, were spreading along the embankment of the road, moving to flank around Corban’s arrowhead that had punched into the heart of the enemy. He glanced behind him, saw the Jehar and Benothi were following him, spreading either side. They would be a wall when they hit the enemy, not a point. He saw Akar’s face, the man nodding grimly to him. Tukul had mixed both groups of the Jehar, having noticed a polarization occurring between the Hundred that had followed him from Telassar and the survivors of those who had followed Sumur. That is not good. We are kin. What’s done is done and there should be no grievance between us. And nothing binds like battle.
Tukul was two hundred paces away when he urged Daria to a gallop and let her go. She did not need telling twice, exploding forwards. Wind whipped his face. He looped his reins around his saddle pommel, pressing his knees tight against her flanks, flicked open the leather catch on his axe’s saddle holster.
A hundred and fifty paces.
The ground was drumming to their charge, hooves and iron-shod giants. He pulled his axe free, drew his sword from his back in one long sinuous move. All about him he heard the Jehar echoing him.
A hundred paces.
Battle was raging further along the road, Corban and his followers carving deep into the warband, their progress slowing, horses jostling and heaving in a mass of flesh. Closer to Tukul men amongst the enemy were screaming orders, moving to meet Tukul and his hundred.
Fifty paces, and Tukul fixed his eyes on a trio of warriors standing together, braced, shields raised, spears dipped like stakes. Elyon above, I give you my sword and my soul.
He charged them, Daria not slowing as she hit the embankment, powering up the small slope. Heartbeats before collision Tukul threw his axe, at the same time nudging Daria to the left. He saw the axe smash into a face, the warrior falling back, blood erupting, and he slashed at another with his sword as he pounded past, felt the blade cut through leather and flesh. Then he was beyond them, hooves clattering on the stone of the road. A mounted warrior appeared from amongst the wains, saw him and charged. Tukul raised his sword two-handed over his head. Sparks flared as their blades clashed, the momentum of their mounts carrying them past each other, Tukul back-swinging, decapitating his enemy. The horse carried on, disappearing down the embankment, its headless rider slowly slipping off its back.
There was a thunder of hooves; he looked to his left and a horse crashed into him, its rider slashing at his head. Pain exploded in his leg. He blocked, a part of his mind disapproving his technique. Daria neighed wildly as she was bludgeoned backwards, hooves slipping, scrabbling, almost falling. She bit the enemy’s horse in her frustration and Tukul grabbed his opponent’s wrist, pulled and stabbed his sword up, into the man’s armpit, piercing chainmail and sinking deep into flesh. He fell away, Tukul ripping his sword free, blood spraying his face.
Daria righted herself and with a grimace he sent her plunging deeper into the battle. He slashed either side, great looping strokes, left a trail of blood and dying men in his wake. Blows came at him but the stark clarity of battle had taken him – everything bright, sharp, every blow seen as if in slow motion. Men came at him and they died.
Abruptly Daria was sliding, plunging downwards. Tukul felt a moment of disorientation, then realized they had cut their way across the wide giant road and were sliding down the embankment on the far side. For a moment Tukul could see the river, the meadow before it heaving with battle. Then they were hurtling towards a press of warriors looming before him, mostly men on foot. Daria collided with a solid wall of flesh, their momentum stalled, and then Tukul was hurtling through the air, thrown from his saddle. He fell into a warrior, bones crunching – not mine – he thought, then he was on the ground, rolling clear, somehow still clutching his sword.
He came to his feet, his left leg throbbing, sword held in the stag’s guard, met a surge of blows, his blade parrying and striking faster than he could think, his years of training and discipline taking over, counteracting more rapidly than conscious thought. In a matter of heartbeats half a dozen men lay dead or dying about him. He stood froz
en, sword raised, breathing hard.
I am getting old.
Other men appeared – four singling him out. They spread around him in a half-circle. Then one in the middle hurtled forwards in a spray of blood, knocked down by Daria’s hooves as she reared behind him and lashed out. Tukul was moving before the others could understand what had happened, sidestepping to the right, his sword sweeping left to right, opening a throat, following through with his momentum to slash downwards, his blade ringing against a rushed block. He rolled his wrists, shifted his feet and his sword was slashing across a face, his enemy reeling back, screaming, hands reaching for his ruined eyes. A lunge and the screams stopped.
One man was left of the four. He looked at Tukul, then turned and ran.
Daria trotted forward and nuzzled his shoulder.
‘Good girl,’ he said as he swung back into the saddle.
Silhouettes loomed on the road above him, one clearly a giant, others on horseback, instantly recognizable as Jehar. More appeared as Tukul looked, and they swept down the embankment to him. A Jehar rider pulled up beside him – Akar.
‘Regroup?’ the warrior asked him.
‘No,’ Tukul said. He blinked away sweat from his eyes, felt the battle joy spreading through his veins, overwhelming the pain in his leg and a dozen smaller wounds.
‘We press on, give them no respite.’
The road above looked clear, the bulk of the fighting appearing to be happening on the meadow before him. Tukul didn’t know if the plan had worked or not, he just saw the black and gold of his enemy before him, servants of those who had set themselves against Elyon, who had already attempted to cut the heart from his Bright Star. A dark anger swelled in him, bubbling hot through his veins.
‘Control it, lest you be controlled,’ he murmured the Jehar mantra, then he raised his sword and charged into the meadow, ignoring the shafts of pain jolting up from his leg, yelling a battle-cry that was taken up by a wave of Jehar and giants behind him.
‘TRUTH AND COURAGE!’
Tukul sat on the roadside. He’d found his axe and was busy cleaning blood from his weapons, then using a whetstone to work out the notches.