by John Gwynne
It’s all right for you. You’re not carrying a rock.
Pots seemed to have adopted Haelan since he had saved the dog from the rat. Haelan was puffing and panting when he reached the pile of rocks and dumped his on the top. His hands throbbed and upon inspection he found three blisters.
‘Thanks, lad,’ Tahir said to him, sweating as he picked up a boulder from Haelan’s mound. He’d stripped his clothes off to the waist: shirt, leather vest and sword-belt laid in a pile. Men all along the meadow were taking boulders from the mounds made by children and repairing an old wall.
‘Why are we doing this?’ Haelan asked Tahir.
‘Because a wall’s no use if it’s got holes in it,’ Tahir said.
Haelan sniffed, looking at his blisters.
When I am king I shall get you to carry my rocks for me.
‘But why is the entire hold going to so much trouble? Haven’t they got better things to do?’
‘Wulf thinks it’s best to tighten his hold’s defences. I’d agree with him there, and I think you would too.’
‘Where is Wulf, then?’ Haelan asked sullenly. ‘He comes up with the idea, gives the order and then is nowhere to be seen.’
‘I don’t know where Wulf is,’ Tahir said. ‘On business for Gramm, no doubt. But you’d do things here differently, would you?’
‘Aye. Lead by example. That’s what my mam said to me.’ He felt a lump in his throat and picked at a fingernail.
‘Well, that’s good advice. But whether Wulf’s here or no, this wall still needs fixing. Don’t want Jael just wandering in, if he comes back, do we?’
No. Haelan remembered the sight of Jael’s warband as it rode bold as brass into Gramm’s courtyard.
‘A wall won’t stop Jael, though.’
‘No, right enough. But it would slow him, if the road was blocked too, and a wall’s good for other things, as well. Surprises, traps, stopping people getting out, once they’re in. Now stop flapping your tongue and bring me some more rocks.’
Haelan sighed, looking across the meadow. Every man, woman and bairn had been split into work groups of about a score and fanned out to this outer wall. His group was now leagues away from Gramm’s hold, closer to Forn Forest than Haelan had ever been. Its trees were huge, towering high into the sky, trunks thick and knotted. I don’t think a dozen men could link their arms around those trees. For some reason, though, Haelan liked to look at Forn. It’s like another world, away from Jael and all of his hurt. Somewhere safe. He drifted off in a daydream that involved carving a house inside the trunk of one of those great trees and living out his days in safety, hunting by day with Pots at his side, reclining at night in his hall in the trunk’s heart.
‘Sore hands?’ a voice said behind him. It was Trigg, the half-breed. She glanced at Pots as she put a rock on the pile, bigger than anything Haelan could hope to lift, let alone carry a hundred paces.
And she doesn’t even look to be sweating.
‘That dog should be dead,’ Trigg commented matter-of-factly. ‘And you killed the biggest rat I’ve ever caught. Could’ve made me rich, that rat.’
Haelan glanced at Trigg’s belt, at the axe that hung there.
Swain’s axe, which I used to kill the rat.
A fresh wave of guilt rose up in him at the thought of Swain. His friend, taken by Jael. Because of me.
Gramm had raged like a madman when Jael had led his warband from the hold, taking Swain and his sister Sif with him. Gramm had grabbed a long-handled axe and hacked away at the feast-hall wall. No one had tried to stop him, just watching Gramm until his arms had drooped with exhaustion. It had taken a long time. Just before sunset Wulf had ridden in at the head of thirty men, the patrol that travelled daily the boundary of their land. One look at his wife Hild and Gramm and the colour had drained from his face.
That night Gramm had summoned the entire hold into the feast-hall, more than two hundred souls. Around eighty of those were warriors, men who walked the hold’s wall, patrolled Gramm’s land, kept out predators from Forn and bandits from the lawless lands round about. The rest were those who worked the lifeblood of the hold – timber and horses, as well as all that went along with it, smiths and tanners, leatherworkers and weavers and trappers. And most had families, wives and bairns. Even so the hall had been silent when Gramm spoke.
‘Two of my grandchildren were taken from me this day,’ he had said. Hild started sobbing again, Wulf sitting straight-backed and red-eyed beside her.
‘Taken by a tyrant. An evil man who would rule us because he can.’ Grumbling had rippled around the room at that.
‘And I could have my grandchildren back, if I would do but one thing.’ He had beckoned to Haelan, called him to his side. Haelan had stood with eyes downcast.
‘If I hand this boy over to Jael, I get my grandchildren back, and gold besides.’ Silence had settled again. Gramm let it stretch, looking around the hall slowly, at every face there.
‘I’ll not do it. It’s wrong, simple as that. You all know who this lad is. Haelan, rightful heir to Isiltir’s throne.’ There had been no point trying to hide that information, as Haelan had announced himself, full title and all, upon his arrival at Gramm’s hold in front of a full feast-hall. In hindsight, not the most sensible thing to do. But Gramm had been adamant that none would betray him. These people are closer than kin to me. None would betray you, for betraying you they would be betraying me.
‘His da’s been murdered by Jael, and his mam. Our rightful Queen.’ Gramm had continued. ‘When he came here I promised him sanctuary, gave him my oath. I’ll not break it. I’ll stand my ground. We’ll stand our ground.’ He’d put a big hand on Wulf and Hild’s shoulders. ‘We’ll get them back, somehow. On my oath, we’ll get them back.’
Something prodded Haelan’s shoulder and he blinked. It was Trigg, poking him with a finger.
‘You listening to me? I said you owe me for my rat, some kind of recompense.’
‘I don’t owe you anything,’ Haelan said. ‘You’ve got Swain’s axe. That was the bet.’
Pots growled.
‘Well, it wasn’t fair, was it? I think you should give me something for my loss.’
‘No,’ Haelan said.
Trigg stared at him, then nodded, humour in her eyes. ‘Fair enough – worth a try, but I don’t want you getting angry with me. I remember what you did to my rat.’
Haelan snorted, looking Trigg up and down, cords of muscle twisting about her arms. This was the most he’d spoken to her, the most he’d heard her ever speak to anyone.
Pots was still growling. Haelan thought the dog had been growling at Trigg, but he was looking the other way, towards Forn Forest. Haelan looked too, past the stream and the first line of undergrowth, deep in amongst the thick trunks. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, to discern shadow from bush. He was about to look away when he saw something move, deep amongst the trees, a hulking shadow that moved differently to the branches around it.
Haelan shivered, squinted as he stared harder.
It’s too far away.
A breeze blew across him, out of the forest. Pot’s nose twitched and he growled louder. Behind them horses whinnied.
‘Something’s in there,’ Trigg said, staring too. ‘Something big.’
Then there was other movement, blurred shapes, shrubs undulating, and suddenly the forest was seething, branches shaking, undergrowth crashing. A great roaring shattered the silence, followed by growls and snarls, thuds and screams. Everyone in the meadow froze, staring. Then Haelan felt a hand on his shoulder and Tahir was stepping in front of him, moving to where he’d stripped his shirt and vest, his belt and sheathed sword lying on top. He buckled on his belt and drew his sword.
The noise from the forest continued, a cacophony of roars and growls, punctuated by the sharp crack of timber snapping, then it faded. The sound of an animal whining drifted on the breeze, then nothing. Finally a great bellow roared from the trees, making branches quiver and leaves fall. Ha
elan covered his ears with his hands and closed his eyes, the sound reverberating in his chest. Behind Haelan horses neighed, some breaking their tethers and bolting. Abruptly the roaring stopped, replaced by the sound of undergrowth crashing, fading quickly.
Tahir threw on his clothes and ran to where his horse was still standing, one of only a few that had not bolted. He swung into his saddle, others about the meadow doing the same, and trotted towards the forest.
‘Take me with you,’ Haelan shouted, running alongside him.
‘It could be dangerous,’ Tahir frowned.
‘Better than leaving me here. What if whatever it was comes into the meadow while you’re in the forest?’
Tahir reined in for a moment, then nodded. He pulled Haelan up into the saddle. ‘Hold on,’ he said and kicked his horse on, Pots running along beside them.
Other riders joined them as they approached the forest until they numbered a dozen, all men with iron in their hands, sword, spear and axe. Haelan peered around Tahir’s waist as the forest closed in about them. It was like walking from full day into the cool of the evening, twilight falling about them like a shroud. Branches scratched Haelan’s arms as the undergrowth became denser. He looked back over his shoulder, saw the meadow bathed in sunshine, the wall shrinking, and a figure running after them, gaining. It was Trigg, her long legs eating up the ground. She caught up with them and fell in quietly.
They spilt into a glade, the undergrowth trampled and flatted. Pots froze, growling. Tahir hissed an indrawn breath. The smell hit Haelan first, warm and cloying. It brought back memories. I know that smell. Death.
‘Elyon save us,’ someone said. That scared Haelan, for he knew that these were all hard men, used to the wild, living within sight of Forn and the Desolation.
Haelan squirmed behind Tahir, peered around him. At first he couldn’t make sense of what he saw. Blood was everywhere, staining the ground in great pools, spattering bark and leaves. Here and there were mounds of fur. Four, five of them. He looked closer, still didn’t understand what he was seeing.
‘What are they?’ he whispered to Tahir as the warrior slipped from his saddle.
‘Wolven.’
Tahir crouched by one of the dead creatures. It lay in a pile of its own intestines, great claw marks carved across one side of its head. Trigg joined him.
‘They’re young,’ Trigg muttered, lifting a paw and checking the dead animal’s claws.
‘What did this?’ Haelan said.
‘This did,’ Trigg said. Even though Haelan wasn’t sure what he thought of Trigg, whether he trusted her or not, he didn’t doubt her on this matter. All knew that she spent much of her absences from the hold in Forn Forest, and to do that and survive meant you knew a fair bit about the ways of the forest, including its inhabitants. Trigg was standing beside a huge paw print, as big as a pewter plate, claw marks gouging the earth.
‘What does that belong to?’
‘A bear,’ Trigg said with a frown. ‘They don’t often wander south of the river.’
‘This one did,’ Tahir said, crouching beside another dead wolven. ‘What happened here?’
‘Think a wolven pack set its sights on the wrong meal,’ Trigg muttered. ‘They’re smaller than usual. Maybe a young pack that made the wrong choice?’
Haelan slipped from his saddle, something compelling him to take a closer look. His hand fumbled at his belt, reaching for his eating-knife. Trigg chuckled and held out her hatchet – Swain’s hatchet.
‘That’s yours,’ Haelan said.
‘I know. Which means I can loan it to who I like.’ She offered it again. ‘It would be more use than that pin.’
Haelan took it with a nod, liking the weight of it in his hand.
‘Looks like the bear ran off this way,’ one of the other men said. He was standing before a gaping hole in the underbrush, taller and wider than a large man. It led into darkness.
‘Should we hunt it?’ someone suggested.
‘Don’t be a fool. Five wolven tried that. Best off getting back to the women and bairns,’ someone else said.
Haelan was looking at each wolven, just piles of flesh, bone and fur now. They all bore great rents upon their bodies, marks of claw and tooth.
‘Come on, lad,’ Tahir said, lifting Haelan back onto his saddle.
‘Think you should look at this,’ Trigg said. She was squatting beside one of the dead wolven, claw marks exposing its ribs.
Tahir strode over to her and crouched to inspect the wound.
‘Not that,’ Trigg said. ‘This.’ She lifted the wolven’s head, exposing a huge cut in its neck, the head almost severed.
‘That’s a clean cut. Tooth and claw didn’t do that,’ Trigg said. ‘Looks more like an axe-blade to me.’
The feast-hall was full that night. A summer storm had swept in from the north and Haelan’s cloak was soaked through. Outside, wind howled and thunder rumbled. Haelan heard the phrase ‘dark omen’ muttered more than once as he sat with Tahir and a few other warriors. Pots was begging for scraps by his feet. He dropped a chunk of bread to the dog, his hand wandering to the hatchet at his belt – Trigg had told him to look after it for him. I don’t understand Trigg. She’s confusing.
As if his thoughts had summoned her, Trigg came and sat next to Haelan with a trencher full of meat and gravy, the bench creaking as she sat upon it.
‘Got something for you,’ Trigg said with her mouth full and pushed something across the table. It was a tooth, a long, curved fang, a hole drilled in the wide end, a leather thong threaded through it.
Haelan just looked at it.
‘Go on, take it. It’s yours. A reminder of your first steps into Forn.’
Haelan lifted it up, fascinated.
‘My thanks,’ he stuttered. ‘How’d you get it?’
‘Ripped it out as everyone else was getting back on their horses and leaving. Before the others came back and skinned them wolven. I’ve got one too,’ she said, pulling her shirt open to reveal another fang hanging about her neck.
Gramm stood at the head of the table. Haelan’s gaze flickered to the giant hammer and bear skin nailed to the wall above him. The skin was huge, twice the size of a horse. Is that what was in Forn today? He shivered at the thought of it. Maybe the wolven pelts will be hanging there soon.
‘You’ll all have heard by now: strange things have been sighted in Forn today. A wolven pack attacked by something, most likely a great bear. And there were other signs . . .’ Gramm paused, looking around the room. ‘It looks like the Jotun have crossed the river. One at least, but where there is one giant, there are usually more. On the morrow I’ll be tracking them.’ His eyebrows knotted in a frown. ‘These are dark times, and I’m hearing many of you say what happened in Forn today is a dark omen. Well, you’re right. Dark times are here, the night is upon us, and we must all be vigilant if we want to see dawn rise again. You all know what I believe is coming, have heard me talk of the God-War. I’m not going to repeat myself. But I’ll tell you this. It’s here. It’s happening. What was found in Forn today, that was no coincidence.’ He looked around, letting the silence stretch. Goose-bumps prickled Haelan’s skin.
Am I part of this God-War? As if I didn’t have enough to worry about already. Are we really the puppets of Elyon and Asroth, playing out their war with our lives? My mam’s life? He felt a frustrated rage bubbling inside him at that thought. I want them to just leave us alone.
Gramm raised his cup. ‘So keep your eyes open and your blades sharp,’ he said, then drained his drink to the last drop.
The hall echoed him, even Haelan and Trigg lifting their cups and muttering the oath.
Just then the doors banged open, rain sleeting in. Three men stood outlined by the firelight. Lightning crackled behind them as they strode into the hall.
Two were warriors whom Haelan recognized from the hold, both older men with grey in their beards, men high in Gramm’s confidences. The man walking between them was Wulf. He look
ed none too happy.
They walked the length of the feast-hall, stopping before Gramm.
Gramm stood, resting his big fists on the table.
‘We have brought him back to you, lord,’ one of the men beside Wulf said.
‘Where did you find him?’ Gramm asked.
‘Where you said. Dun Kellen. Looked as if he was just about to have a go at storming the gates on his own.’
‘Ach, Wulf, my boy, that was a foolish thing to attempt,’ Gramm said.
‘They’re in there, my Swain and Sif. I heard shieldmen of Jael’s talking about them,’ Wulf said, staring up at Gramm. His expression drifted between anger and abject misery.
‘Whether they are or not, you wouldn’t be able to bring them out. You’d just end up in a cell alongside them, or your head separated from your shoulders. Why’d you do it, lad?’
‘I had to do something,’ Wulf said. ‘The thought of them in that fortress, scared, cold, alone . . .’
‘We’ll get them back, somehow,’ Gramm said.
‘How? When?’ Wulf asked.
Gramm sighed, his shoulders slumping. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
Haelan was sitting in his chamber with Tahir. He had shared a room with the Gadrai warrior since the night they had arrived at Gramm’s hold.
There was a quiet tap at their door and then it creaked open. Wulf came in. He nodded to Tahir and pulled a chair up, poured himself a cup of mead.
‘I need your help,’ he said when his cup was empty. His eyes were red-rimmed.
Tahir just looked at him.
‘I’m going to Dun Kellen to get my children back.’
‘You’ve just come back from there. And besides, that’s suicide,’ Tahir said. ‘A fool’s errand. Listen to your da.’
‘You know a way into Dun Kellen. The secret giant tunnel you escaped by.’
Tahir looked hard at him. ‘It’s not a secret any longer. Your brother Orgull stood in front of it and made a mountain of the dead there.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Jael will not be expecting anyone to try and sneak into Dun Kellen. The tunnel is my best hope.’
‘It is no hope.’
‘I’m going. Will you help me?’