by John Gwynne
His body ached everywhere, but particularly the leg that had been slammed by the charging horse. He’d cared for Daria, checking her wounds, taken her to a spot upriver where the water wasn’t flowing pink and washed her down, did the same for himself, discovering a dozen or so cuts on his body that he hadn’t known were there.
The battle was done, an overwhelming victory made all the more joyous when Tukul had seen Gar striding through the dead. They had hugged fiercely, only their eyes betraying their secret fears for one another. The body count so far was fifteen dead Jehar and three giants, against three hundred or so of Rhin’s warband. In the end the enemy had broken and scattered, many leaping into the river rather than face the Jehar swords and Benothi hammers and axes. A score of prisoners had been rounded up and were kneeling in the grass before Corban and Meical. Along with a handful of Jehar guarding them, Storm was prowling a circle about them, her jaws bloodstained, Buddai lying in the flattened grass, watching.
I don’t think any will be stupid enough to try escaping.
Further along the meadow Brina and Ethlinn were treating the wounded, Cywen helping, as well as a handful of the Jehar and some of the giantlings. The smell of burning flesh wafted on the breeze to Tukul as wounds were cauterized.
‘I’ll not murder men that have surrendered,’ Tukul heard Corban say, his voice rising. Meical just stared implacably back at him.
Tukul shared a look with Gar, and with a sigh he rose, his muscles complaining, already stiffening, and strode to join them.
‘This is war, Corban,’ Meical said as Tukul reached them. ‘It is not murder; it is the execution of an enemy that fights on the side of Asroth. There is no moral dilemma here. Let them live, they will join with Nathair and Calidus behind us, swell their ranks, give them information, and fight against us again.’
Corban pinched his nose.
Leading is a hard task, Tukul thought. And he is bowing beneath the weight of it.
‘They are warriors following orders from their Queen. Not innocent, but not knowingly Asroth’s servants,’ Corban muttered. ‘I understand your points, and they are practical.’ He sighed. ‘But there is no honour in killing helpless men.’
‘This is the definition of honour,’ Meical said, frowning. ‘They chose a side. They were not helpless when they made their choice, or indeed half-a-candle ago, when they were set on separating our heads from our shoulders. They fought. They lost. And they have failed their lord. There would be more dishonour for them if they lived.’
I do not think they would agree, Tukul thought, looking at the captives.
Corban looked at the prisoners kneeling in the grass, many bloodstained, wounded.
‘I cannot kill them.’
‘Break some bones,’ Tukul said.
‘What?’
‘Break the thumb and a finger or two of their sword hand. Break an ankle. They’ll not be able to hold a weapon or move in combat. They’ll not face you in battle any time soon. And they’ll be alive.’
Corban thought about that a few moments. A relieved smile spread across his face and he squeezed Tukul’s shoulder.
‘See that it’s done,’ he said. ‘And quickly. We need to move out before the Kadoshim decide to join us.’
Tukul organized the task, asking Balur and a few giantlings to do the deed.
Involve each group in this warband – the Benothi, my Jehar, and those who joined us in Murias. We need to become one.
Balur chuckled as the first man fainted at the sight of a giant raising his war-hammer, but he only brought the butt-end down on the unconscious warrior’s hand. Bones smashed.
It was over quickly enough, most of the prisoners knowing that it could have been their heads lying on the grass.
Soon the warband was ready to ride.
Corban was already mounted, eager to leave. A string of horses was roped to take with them, spoils of the battle, and that was after the rescued villagers had each been given a mount. The spare horses were loaded with more spoils from the battlefield – cloaks, boots, leather jerkins, a few good coats of mail, bundles of spears, swords and knives as well as barrels of salted meats and mead.
It won’t last long, but it’ll make a welcome break from brot.
The auroch that had been yoked to the supply wains were cut loose and set free on the open moors.
Corban spoke again to the handful of villagers who had joined them, gave them a choice of staying with the warband or riding out on their own. They discussed it briefly and then Teca, their chosen speaker, told him that they would stay with the warband.
And with that Corban called out and they set out, moving down the old giants’ road in a wide column, Coralen and her chosen scouts riding ahead.
Our first real battle with the Bright Star leading us. He has done well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CAMLIN
Camlin woke with a stiff neck. They’d slept in their boats, tied in amongst a thick bank of reeds. A gentle current had tugged Camlin’s boat out into the marsh stream, where dawn’s rays painted the world in a golden sheen. Meg was sitting by his feet, staring at him. She offered him a piece of . . . something – bread, maybe? He looked closer, saw it had a spongy texture, like a mushroom. He shook his head.
The others were still asleep, Edana and Baird at the far end of their flat-bottomed boat, Brogan propped in the middle, his snoring rocking the boat, sending waves lapping. Amongst the reeds he could make out the tips of boats. Eight in total, and beyond them the shadowy figures of those on the last shift of night’s watch. He spied Vonn’s straw-coloured hair leaning against a willow.
They had rowed or poled their way deeper and deeper into the marshes, long after all sounds of Morcant’s pursuit had faded, eventually grouping together in this reed bank. Camlin groaned as he moved. His neck wasn’t the only part of him that ached. He scratched at a lump on his neck, and another, then looked at the back of his hand, saw more red bite marks trailing up his arm. I’ve been dinner for a warband of mosquitoes.
‘Don’t recommend sleeping in a boat,’ he muttered.
Edana stirred and Baird opened his one good eye. Instantly he was awake, sitting up, hand straying to his sword hilt. Brogan let out a snore as loud as a horse and Baird kicked him. He sat up too quickly, the boat almost tipping.
‘Morning,’ he said with a grin as he scratched his arse.
They gathered on the marsh bank.
Three men had died in the escape from the village. A few were wounded, though nothing seemed imminently fatal.
‘So where is this Dun Crin?’ Roisin said, looking between Edana and Camlin.
‘I don’t know,’ Edana said.
‘A giants’ fortress, how can you not know where it is?’ Roisin snapped.
Apparently a night spent sleeping rough in a boat in the marshes doesn’t improve her mood.
‘This whole marshland covers an area of fifty leagues or more, and the fortress is rumoured a ruin. Who knows what little is left of it. But Eremon received word that a resistance has taken root here, and what we saw and heard from Morcant would confirm that. They must be here somewhere.’
‘So your plan is to row around these stinking marshes until we bump into them?’
Y e s , thought Camlin, though that’s not the most diplomatic answer, right now.
Edana stared at Roisin for a few moments, their gazes locked. ‘Yes,’ she said.
Oh dear. Even princesses have an end to their patience.
‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing.’
‘If you don’t like it you can always go back to Domhain. Or back to your ship.’
Looks as if Edana isn’t so polite after a night as food for mosquitoes, either. Camlin tried not to laugh, but he could see ripples of anger flickering through their group, Cian and some other of Roisin’s shieldmen. Not a good sign. They’re obviously not used to hearing their Queen spoken to like this. I’ve seen men start putting knives into each other for little more reason than
that they were tired and hungry. This could all turn ugly right quick.
Camlin was still trying to think of something to defuse the situation when Lorcan broke the sullen silence.
‘No point squabbling,’ he said. ‘We should be rejoicing in our glorious escape from Rhin’s henchmen. And I must say that to hear my two favourite ladies exchange such harsh words is almost more than I can bear.’
More silence. And this time Camlin could not stop the grin spilling across his face. Edana scowled at the young warrior, while Roisin looked surprised.
‘Isn’t it best if we work together?’ Lorcan continued, finding everyone looking at him. ‘Perhaps there is a better way of finding our allies than wandering aimlessly around.’
‘Agreed,’ Vonn said, who was sitting against a thick-trunked willow. ‘Arguing won’t help us find them, and we’re here now, so no point regretting it. At least we know that they are definitely here, somewhere – else why is Morcant here? He’s hunting them – we all heard what he said to those village elders.’
‘They are in these marshes somewhere,’ Edana said, her eyes hovering over Camlin.
She wants me to say something.
‘That they are,’ Camlin said. ‘It’s just the finding them we have to master now.’ He looked carefully at everyone in their group, finally settling upon Meg, the girl from the village.
‘Meg, can you help us?’ Camlin said. ‘You know who we are searching for?’
‘Aye,’ Meg said, chewing her lip. ‘The people my kin were slaughtered over.’
‘That’s right,’ Camlin said. ‘I’m not promising anything will happen quickly, but those warriors back at the village – Morcant and the others, that did . . .’ His words failed, the image of a child swinging from a gallows filling his mind. ‘They’re our enemies. We are here to fight them. We’d see some justice done for your kin, but we can’t do it alone.’
She looked at all the faces staring at her, finally settled back on Camlin.
‘They used to come to the village, trade for goods. And news. They had coin – some gold. Never seen gold before.’
‘Can you find them, child, in these marshes?’ Roisin asked her. Meg wouldn’t look at her, instead sidled closer to Camlin.
‘Do you know where they’re based, girlie?’ Camlin asked her.
‘Maybe.’
‘And what does that mean?’ Roisin said, throwing her hands in the air.
‘Mother,’ Lorcan muttered.
‘Can you help us, Meg?’ Camlin said, crouching down to look her in the eyes. ‘It’d mean a great deal to us.’
‘I can’t take you to Dun Crin, don’t know where it is. But I know roughly where they came from, the direction they took when they left my village – followed them for a while once, for the fun of it.’
Camlin nodded. It wasn’t much. But it was better than nothing.
They spent three days making their way through winding streams, some dead ends, others choked with reeds or dense with willow branches that draped the water like lazy fingers in a stream. Camlin’s flat-bottomed boat led the way, Meg sitting upon the steering oar as the others took shifts in poling the boat deeper into the marshes. They ate through Brogan’s barrel of herring in two days, but after that Meg taught them how to weave willow traps and set them in the stream for the night. Each morning they were wriggling with life – mostly eels, but other things as well, frogs and toads, the odd trout and roach. Camlin could tell that some of this new crew didn’t care too much for the food, but he was accustomed to living off of the land.
This is easy. Food’s a bit slimy, and a bit smelly, but slimy food’s better than no food at all.
And as Camlin poled, he thought. Thought about how he’d gone from being part of Braith’s crew to here, with Edana. How did I get here? Poling through a marsh with a renegade queen looking to me for direction. In his mind it all went back to one moment: in the Darkwood, when he had stood in front of Cywen as Morcant ordered her slain. And since then he had felt as if he was involved in something greater than him, something more than just living to line his pocket. He had made, and lost, real friends. Marrock, Corban, Dath . . .
I hope they are well, that they found Cywen and are safe.
And Halion.
Was he slain defending the steps on the beach? Or taken prisoner by Conall? Never did like that Conall – now King of Domhain. Everyone has a temper, but him, he was ruled by it, unpredictable. Wouldn’t trust him in a fight, whether he was on my side or the other.
Camlin’s mind drifted back to the village, to the corpses hanging from the gallows, to the conversation Morcant had had with the captives he had brought to the village. And he thought a lot about the chest of silver in the roundhouse. A chest of silver right under my nose. What kind of thief am I?
‘I’ll take a go at that, now,’ a voice said, Baird moving along the boat.
‘I’m all right for a while more,’ Camlin said.
‘Please, I need to do something. Can’t just go to sleep at the drop of a cap like our big friend.’ He pointed at Brogan, who was stretched out in the boat, snoring peacefully. ‘And his snoring is making me want to kill something.’
‘All right,’ Camlin said and passed him the pole. Behind them boats twisted in single file, the stream they were travelling too narrow for anything else.
‘Think she knows where she’s going?’ Baird asked him, nodding towards Meg.
‘Don’t think she’s lying,’ Camlin said. ‘But following someone for a while and then turning back doesn’t mean we’re going to find them. They may be moving around – sensible thing to do when you’re in a crew that’s hunted.’ He shrugged. ‘What are your plans, once we find them?’
‘If we find them,’ Baird corrected.
‘Aye, if.’
‘Cross that bridge when I reach it,’ Baird said. He shrugged. ‘I swore I’d see Edana safe. Not sure leaving her in a marsh with a bunch of hunted rebels is safe.’ He grinned, looking slightly insane. ‘Besides, I’ve got nothing better to do, and sticking around with Edana is likely to see me crossing blades with Rhin or her arselings eventually. I want revenge. Rath was a good man, and my friend. Most likely he’s dead now, on Rhin’s account.’
They turned a bend in the stream, its banks widening a little, passing through a copse of willow and dogwood. Camlin felt the hairs on his arm prickle.
Something’s wrong. Something was missing. He frowned. Noise. It is silent. Abruptly there was no birdsong, the constant drone and buzz of insects startlingly absent. The only sound was Brogan’s basal snoring and the lapping of paddles in water. Baird was staring ahead, a frown creasing his brow.
‘Be ready,’ the one-eyed giantkiller from Domhain whispered.
Camlin reached for his bow, making the boat rock. Brogan’s snoring spluttered and then evened out again. The last of the boats behind him came into view around the bend. Camlin slowed his movements and tried to string his bow calmly, eyes scanning the banks ahead.
Before he had a string out of its pouch the banks exploded into life. Thirty, forty men, all armed, most with spears aimed their way. Camlin put a restraining hand onto Baird’s arm as the warrior reached for his sword.
‘No point dying here,’ Camlin whispered. ‘They’ve got us cold.’
Is this them? The rebels we’ve been seeking?
Others in the boats behind Camlin were of a different mind, drawing weapons, yelling.
A warrior stepped forward on the riverbank, older, red hair streaked with silver spilling from beneath an iron helm. He wore a coat of mail and a leather vest, held a thick spear.
‘Put up your arms or you’ll be food for the fish. Bring your boats to the bank, nice and smooth, and get up here where I can see you.’
No one moved.
Edana’s voice rang out. ‘Do as he says. I’ll have none of you die here.’ She stood in the boat, the hood of her cloak drawn over her head. ‘And who are you, that waylay us?’ she asked.
The red-ha
ired warrior opened his mouth, appearing to be about to answer, then frowned. The first boats reached the bank, Cian and Vonn jumping ashore, then Lorcan, who turned and helped his mother to disembark. More than a few of the warriors stared openly at Roisin.
‘I’ll be asking the questions here,’ the red-haired warrior said. ‘And my first question is: who are you?’
Don’t do it – let’s at least find out who these men claim to be. Could be scouts of Morcant’s, or lawless men, or mercenaries, Camlin thought.
Edana stepped onto firm land and pulled her hood down.
‘I am Edana ap Brenin, Queen of Ardan.’
Oh well. Camlin winced. He stepped ashore, bow finally strung, hand reaching beneath his cloak for his quiver of arrows.
There were at least a dozen heartbeats of silence, then the red-haired warrior was stepping forward, staring hard at her, eyes narrowed. Baird and Camlin moved either side of her, Vonn moving along the riverbank. Spear-points were levelled at them.
‘Maybe you are,’ Red Hair said quietly. ‘I saw Edana – in Uthandun. It was years ago, though, and only from a distance. Any of you lads recognize her?’ he cried. Voices murmured along the bank.
To be fair she doesn’t look much like a queen right now. Edana’s hair was tied tight to her head, its natural blonde dull with sweat and dirt. Her cloak and clothes were torn and mud-stained.
‘I think it’s her,’ one voice said.
‘No,’ another cried – ‘too old.’
‘It is Queen Edana,’ Lorcan shouted, standing in front of her. ‘And the next one to call her a liar will feel my sword.’
‘Lorcan,’ Edana hissed. ‘Why would I lie?’ she said to Red Hair.
‘This world is full of snares and traps, my lady. It’s of no matter, I know someone who will be able to tell me for sure.’ Red Hair stepped forwards. He waved something in front of Edana, a hemp sack. ‘All of you, put one of these over your heads and I’ll take you to someone who’ll tell me if you’re queen or liar.’ He gripped Edana’s arm.