by John Gwynne
‘Take your hands off her,’ Lorcan snarled, grabbing Red Hair’s wrist. The warrior punched Lorcan in the face; the lad staggered back a step, then dropped to the floor, unconscious. Roisin screamed and swords began to leave scabbards.
‘No,’ Edana yelled, at the top of her lungs.
Brogan woke at that – until then he had still been snoring in the boat. He staggered upright on unsteady feet, the boat rocking beneath him, and he fell over the side with a splash. He managed to get his feet under him and stood, spitting water.
‘What’s going on?’ he spluttered.
Men on the riverbank laughed.
‘If you are Queen of Ardan, I think you need a new shieldman,’ Red Hair said, smiling.
Edana caught Camlin’s eye. What should I do?
He shrugged imperceptibly. Go with them. What else can we do? I think they’re our rebels, and if they’re not – well, we could put up a fight, but the outcome is clear.
He looked down and saw Meg was standing close to him.
‘Get out of here,’ he whispered. She ignored him, only shuffled closer to him. Stupid bairn. He tried to kick her but she sidestepped.
Edana took the sack from Red Hair. ‘We’ll go peacefully. But I’ll have your name before I put this on my head.’
‘My name is Drust, and I was shieldman to Owain, King of Narvon. Now get on with you.’
It didn’t take long for them all to be blindfolded in some way, and soon they were being led along the riverbank, with much stumbling, tripping and swearing along the way.
Shieldman of Owain – what’s someone who served Owain doing here? An enemy of Rhin, no doubt, but also a man who must have fought Ardan’s warriors, played a part in the sack of Dun Carreg. He can’t have that many friends in Ardan.
Camlin felt the sun on his back and his throat was dry when hands grabbed him, forcing him to stop. The bag was pulled from his head and he blinked in the fading sunlight.
A slope led down to a lake that spread before him, wide and dark, calm and flat as a mirror, its far banks a shadow on the horizon. Towers and walls protruded from the dark waters of the lake, a labyrinth of criss-crossing stone slick with weed and moss. On the ground before the lake was an encampment, tents and more permanent-looking structures, fire-pits, and people – lots of people. Warriors, but also a mixture of others: women, the elderly, bairns running in groups.
‘Welcome to Dun Crin,’ a voice boomed; a large figure was striding towards them. A warrior, tall and barrel-chested, old but not ancient, lots of grey in a long beard tied with leather that draped down to his belly. ‘What have you brought me, Drust?’ His eyes scanned them all, pausing momentarily upon Camlin.
I know you.
Then the big warrior’s eyes fell on Edana and he froze. His mouth opened and closed. ‘Edana? It cannot be,’ he said, then he dropped to one knee before her.
Edana gasped and she flung her arms around him, smothering his face with kisses.
‘Pendathran,’ she cried, ‘I thought you were dead.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
RAFE
Rafe trekked along an old fox trail that wound through green meadows. He was a league or so north of Dun Taras, the fortress a dark shadow on the horizon behind him. A ten-night had passed since he’d returned with Conall and Braith. Word of Halion’s capture and imprisonment had spread and, within days, the unrest had begun again. It seemed there was a rebellious element that wanted Halion as king, rather than Conall. Grain barns had been burned, the camp of Veradis and his eagle-warriors had been vandalized, and last night an attempt had been made to rescue Halion. It had failed, but the mood in the fortress was grim and Rafe had decided he needed a break from politics, people and stone walls, to be somewhere green, with only sky above him.
So here he was. The plains to the north of Dun Taras reminded him of Ardan, an undulating landscape of wood and meadow. As he walked he thought of his days back home with his da, when they would head out on hunting trips with just a small bag with rope, flint and tinder, some bread and cheese, never enough to last the duration of their outing – You’ll have to catch us something to eat, Rafe my lad, his da would always say to him, else we’ll starve to death – and slowly but surely his da had taught him the way of the wild. How to track anything that moved, to read the signs, to be cunning, patient when necessary, and fast as a striking adder as well.
Out of habit he’d packed a bag just as his da had taught him. He liked the weight of it across his shoulder, familiar as the weight of a knife on his belt.
I miss my da.
And now he’s dead. Ripped apart by that devil-wolven, Corban’s pet. I hate them both. He looked at the landscape around him, imagined hunting them through it, wearing them down, eventually forcing them to turn at bay. And then he would kill them. The wolven first, so Corban could watch. And then Corban, in a repeat of their Court of Swords in the feast-hall of Dun Carreg. Except this time Rafe would win. He cheated. Lunged at me before I was ready. It’ll be different this time. And in his mind it was, Corban begging for mercy before Rafe slowly pushed his blade home, into Corban’s heart.
He was smiling when one of the hounds started barking.
He’d brought Scratcher and Sniffer out of habit. He saw Scratcher’s hind end disappear into a cluster of shrub, saw the familiar streak of a hare as it burst from the far side of the undergrowth, weaving across an open meadow, leaping a narrow stream. Sniffer went around the shrub that Scratcher was wading through and was bounding after the hare in great, ground-eating strides.
‘Oi,’ Rafe called, ‘here now!’ But he knew it was too late for Sniffer; he had the scent and was for the time being deaf in the joy of his euphoric chase. Scratcher broke through the shrub as Rafe reached him and, being closer, was called to heel.
‘Come on, boy, we’ll catch them together.’
They hurried across the meadow, Rafe splashing across the stream, Scratcher crossing it in a single bound. The ground became spongy underfoot, more streams dissecting the land, thick clumps of marsh grass appearing.
Don’t like this much – soon we’ll be wading into a bog. The thick smell of peat and stagnant water was filling the air. Rafe put his fingers to his lips and whistled, high and shrill. He paused and listened.
Nothing.
He whistled again; this time heard a bark. Looking about, he saw that the ground rose. He headed towards it and climbed a slight incline, realizing that it was an old road, wide, crumbling stone worn and broken by years of attrition, frost and thaw, root and rain. Must be giant-made, like the giantsway back home. He whistled again, walking on, keeping to this high ground. He saw a streak of grey, Sniffer weaving back to him, something lolling between his jaws.
He caught the hare, then. Good boy.
Rafe stood on the old road with Scratcher and waited, Sniffer making his way through a landscape of glistening streams and pools, edged by strips of blackthorn and dogwood. Willows grew here and there, great curtains of branches draping the ground. In a pool a heron stood tall and still, silhouetted by the sun.
Sniffer was almost back to them when he seemed to stumble and fall. Beside Rafe Scratcher whined.
Sniffer tried to climb to his feet, but couldn’t, as if something had reached out from beneath the ground and had gripped him in a fist of iron.
A bog. He’s fallen into a bog.
Rafe ran down the embankment, stumbling, almost falling, saw the shift from solid to marsh just in time. Black mud was erupting about Sniffer as he thrashed, his great bulk heaving and bucking in the viscous soil, but the more he struggled, the quicker he sank.
‘It’s all right, boy. I’m here, I’m here,’ Rafe called out. Not surprisingly the words didn’t have any effect on Sniffer as he writhed, only his head and shoulders visible now, eyes rolling white in panic. Scratcher paced the edge of land and marsh, whining frantically.
What to do? What to do? Rafe forced himself to be still, then threw his bag from his shoulder and pulle
d out the rope. Thank you, Da. He ran back to a stand of blackthorn and tied one end around the thick, twisted trunk, cutting his hands on the thorns, checked the knot, then tied the other end around his waist. He looked back to Sniffer and was horrified to see his muzzle sink out of sight; he took a run up and leaped into the bog.
He fell in with a great splash, the marsh somewhere between water and mud. It was thick, black, and it stank. He thrashed his way closer to where he thought Sniffer had been, with each move sinking deeper. He reached down, arms feeling like they were pushing through porridge, felt something solid brush his finger tips.
Fur?
He hesitated for a moment, thought about pulling himself back up onto solid ground, but the thought of Sniffer, scared and drowning, filled his mind. He took a deep breath and let the bog take him, digging his way down, doing everything that his da had told him not to do in this situation. With each move of his arms and his legs he felt the bog suck him down, deeper and deeper. His lungs started to hurt, and still he went deeper. He could hear his pulse pounding in his head, his heart thumping in his chest. His lungs burned now, and still he went deeper. Then he felt it, something solid; fur and flesh. He wrapped one arm around it, felt his fingers dig into a thicker level of mud, scrape along something hard and cold. Instinctively he gripped onto it with his fingertips, pulled his arm tight about the hound’s body, with his other hand pulling on the rope stretched taut above him.
He didn’t move. Panic surged through him, combined with the screaming in his lungs into an overwhelming urge to open his mouth and breathe. By an immense act of will he didn’t, instead just kept pulling on the rope.
He moved. Just a fraction at first, then more, half an arm’s length. The hound was a huge weight, anchoring him down, and he was tempted to let go. No. Not now, not after this. He reached higher up the rope, pulled again, this time moving easier, pulled again and now he was moving through honey, not tar. He pulled again and his head burst out of the bog, his mouth opening to suck in a huge lungfull of air. He pulled again, dragged the limp weight of the hound clear, onto his shoulder, started heaving himself towards the bank.
Scratcher was going berserk on the bank, leaping, barking and howling at them.
Rafe crawled onto solid ground, the body of Sniffer flopping beside him. He realized he was gripping something in his other hand, a handle attached to something caked in mud. He dropped it on the ground, ran his hands over Sniffer, Scratcher licking the hound, pushing him with his muzzle.
The hound wasn’t breathing; viscous mud clogged his nostrils, dripping from its mouth.
No! Rafe put his ear to the hound’s deep chest. Nothing. Hot tears came to his eyes and he shook the dog. Its head lolled drunkenly.
‘No!’ he yelled and slammed his fists onto the dog’s chest. Again, and again.
Suddenly the hound jerked, started choking, legs kicking, coughing up great clumps of black earth. Scratcher leaped about them both, barking and licking.
‘Good boy,’ Rafe said as he flopped down beside Sniffer, draping one arm over him. Sniffer lifted his head and looked at Rafe. ‘Good boy,’ Rafe said. ‘Good boy.’ Sniffer licked his face.
Rafe trudged wearily through the gates of Dun Taras, headed for his room, a barrack that he shared with a score of other warriors. People were staring at him.
Can’t blame them, I suppose. He was quite a sight, the mud of the bog drying black, caking him from head to foot. He’d tried to wash, but it didn’t seem to want to come off. Sniffer was the same, grey fur spiked with dried mud. He didn’t seem to care, though.
Why did I do that? I’m a bloody idiot, could have got myself killed. My da would’ve given me such a hiding.
As he approached the keep he saw a familiar face sitting on the steps of a fountain. Braith.
He was much recovered from his wound, just a slight stoop to his shoulder that gave away the weakness where the muscle had been cut.
‘What in the Otherworld happened to you?’ Braith asked him as he approached. Rafe thought about telling the truth, but then thought better of it. Risking death to pull a hound out of a bog. He’ll think I’m touched.
‘I fell in a bog,’ he said. ‘Scratcher pulled me out.’ A good lie is best mingled with the truth, my da always told me. He sat next to Braith, dropping his bag at his feet. It clunked and he remembered the box he’d pulled out of the bog. It had been locked so he’d put it in his bag, thought he’d have a look at it later.
‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked Braith. He liked the woodsman, respected his skill in the wild. And there was something about Braith; when you spoke he made you feel that he listened. Really listened, as if you mattered.
‘Well enough,’ Braith said. ‘My legs aren’t what they were, yet. That’s why I’m sitting here; had to stop for a breather.’ His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. ‘But nothing a few good meals won’t change. Don’t think my aim’ll ever be as good, though.’ He rolled his shoulder and grimaced. ‘Something I’d like to thank Camlin in person for.’
Rafe nodded. He had a few scores of his own that he’d like to settle.
A noise rose up beyond the archway to the keep, a crowd gathered. Many were marching through the gates.
‘What’s that all about?’ Rafe asked.
‘Rhin’s making an announcement at sunset,’ Braith said. He glanced up at the sky and stood. ‘Lend me your shoulder and let’s go and see what she has to say.’
Rhin was standing at the top of a dozen steps before the gates to the keep. She looked regal and imposing in her sable cloak edged in rich embroidery, a torc about her neck and golden thread wound through her silver hair. Conall stood one side of her, glowering at the crowd, Geraint the other. Rafe saw Veradis standing lower down, on a level with the crowd, but apart. A dozen or so of his eagle-guard were with him, looking fine in polished cuirasses of black and silver.
‘I’m not one for grand speeches so I’ll make this quick,’ Rhin began, the crowd quietening almost instantly. ‘There are unsavoury forces at work in this realm that are determined to stay rooted in the past, and in the process cause me some irritation. The past is not always good, by the way. In the case of Domhain the past involved a senile, lecherous old King and his selfish bitch of a young whore wife.’
Mutters rippled around the crowd, some laughter as well.
‘I like to say things as I see them – something you will no doubt become accustomed to. Anyway, this unsavoury element that I speak of amongst you: it has come to my attention that they are keen for Halion ben Eremon to sit upon the throne of Domhain. Now, you already have Conall, the brother, and a very fine King he is proving himself to be, too. So why be so greedy?’
Some more laughter.
‘You malcontents out there will have to make do with Conall, for two reasons. First, because, in case you have forgotten, I have conquered Domhain. Defeated its warbands, seen your King take his life rather than face me, and so I get to choose who I put on your throne. That’s the victor’s right.
‘Secondly. Halion will be unable to sit upon your throne, because as of this time on the morrow, his head will no longer be connected to his body.’
There were gasps at that, some widespread muttering, and still some laughter. Conall took a step back, eyes wide, but he quickly composed himself.
‘Think that was as much news for Conall as it was the rest of us,’ Braith said in Rafe’s ear.
‘That’s all I have to say,’ Rhin said and disappeared into the shadows of the keep. Conall stood there a moment, head bowed, then he strode after her.
The crowd dispersed slowly. Rafe decided it was time to find somewhere to wash the mud from his body, when a warrior of Cambren pushed through the crowd and called to Braith.
‘Queen Rhin wants to see you,’ the warrior said.
‘Come with me,’ Braith said, bending to massage a leg.
Rafe shrugged, though he didn’t much like the thought of being too close to Rhin. She scared him. They followed
the warrior and he escorted them into the keep.
Rhin was waiting beside a fire-pit, shadows rippling across her face. She raised an eyebrow when she saw Rafe.
‘Legs are still a bit weak under me,’ Braith said by way of explanation.
‘Are you well enough for a long journey?’ Rhin said to Braith, no preamble.
‘I am,’ Braith said. ‘Long as I’m sitting on a horse, not walking. How far?’
‘To Ardan. Tracking. Hunting.’
‘I could do with some help.’
Rhin looked at Rafe. ‘You’re a huntsman, I believe.’ She looked him up and down.
‘I . . . I am,’ Rafe stuttered.
‘Good. There’s your help, then, Braith.’
‘What would you have me do?’ Braith asked.
‘Come ready to my chambers tonight, seventh candle. And be ready for the road.’
Rafe followed Braith hesitantly into Rhin’s chamber. It was late, the only light coming from a low-burning fire and a candle or two dotted around the room.
‘Sit,’ Rhin said, waving them to two chairs pulled close about the fire. She poured them both a cup of wine and then reclined, her eyes shining in the firelight. Shadows clung to the deep grooves of her face.
She looks exhausted, worse than normal.
‘What is the mission, my Queen?’ Braith said.
‘Ahh, Braith. My faithful Braith. You have served me well. I’m glad you didn’t die on a cold beach in Domhain.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Braith said as he raised his cup.
‘As to your mission. Well, it is based solely on a prediction, at the moment. It may not happen. Though I am usually right. If there is one thing I know well it is the hearts of men. But I will not speak of it yet. We must wait, and see if my suspicion is founded.’
‘I’ll just drink some more of this fine wine, then,’ Braith said.
‘As long as you are able to ride, you can drink all you like,’ Rhin smiled.
Rafe took a sip and settled back into his chair. For a while he listened to the low murmur of Braith and Rhin’s conversation, but in time his eyes drooped.