by John Gwynne
‘I promise,’ Corban said.
‘Good,’ Meical muttered, calming a little.
‘How is it that you and Calidus are here? Made flesh?’
Meical looked into his cup, swirled it around. ‘It is part of the prophecy; one Ben-Elim, one Kadoshim. Part of Elyon’s fairness, I suppose. Though Calidus hasn’t entirely embraced that aspect.’ He barked a laugh, then sipped some more mead.
They sat in silence a while, then Meical sat straighter. ‘So what I wanted to say to you is this: I have made mistakes, thinking they were the right thing to do, and been outwitted by my counterpart, more than once. So, perhaps doing something that I consider a mistake will turn out right.’ He smiled at Corban and drank some more mead.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Corban said and raised his cup.
They set out the next morning with the rising sun, though thick cloud made dawn a grey, shadow-filled place. There was an air of anticipation about them all.
We will reach the Darkwood today, if no one bars our way. And then Ardan.
They knew Uthandun was the test, the fortress built by Uthan, Owain’s son, overlooking the stone bridge that crossed the river Afren, serving as the gateway to the Darkwood and Ardan beyond.
If word has travelled ahead of us, then Uthandun is where the resistance will be gathered. I pray that we have moved fast enough to outpace all news of us.
Highsun came and went, with only a short break to rest and water horses. The road was becoming busier, traders with loaded wains, trappers with piles of skins, sometimes a family travelling to the market at Uthandun. All moved off of the road and sought to hide as the warband thundered past.
The sun sank lower.
They passed into a region of low-lying hills, to the south-east they occasionally glimpsed the Darkwood, bringing back a multitude of memories to Corban. Walking into a glade full of the dead, feeling a gut-wrenching fear for Cywen, discovering that she’d been captured along with Queen Alona and Edana, and finally the exhausting hunt through the night, deep into the heart of the Darkwood as Storm led them unerringly on the trail of the kidnappers.
Tukul’s voice drew Corban’s attention back to the world about him. A rider was galloping towards them. It was the Jehar Enkara.
‘Warriors of Rhin ahead,’ she said as she reached them. ‘About a score – we let them through. They’ll run when they see you, and Coralen will pick them off.’
Corban nodded, felt a spike of worry for Coralen and the others.
Nothing to be done about it.
Figures appeared on the road ahead. Warriors, by the glint of metal and the way they rode. No sooner had they become visible than they were turning and galloping back down the giants’ road.
Corban saw them stop, saw figures topple from horses – Dath and his bow – Jehar appearing from woodland on either side of the road as Storm surged into view, leaping upon a rider and dragging him and his mount crashing to the ground.
Corban kicked Shield on, breaking from a canter to a gallop, the warband increasing their speed with him. Even so it was all over when they reached them. Storm greeted him, running up and circling about Shield. Her jaws were sticky with blood. Dead men and horses littered the road.
‘Two got away,’ Coralen said when she saw him. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘How far are we from Uthandun?’ Corban asked.
‘A few leagues,’ Coralen said.
‘Then we’re too close now for it to matter.’
They rode on.
Soon after, they crested a low hill and suddenly the Darkwood lay spread before them, Uthandun a few leagues away, sitting upon a gentle hill before the forest. Corban reined Shield in, just sat in his saddle and starred.
The meadows surrounding the fortress were filled with tents. Hundreds of them, men moving about like industrious ants. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Corban’s eyes were drawn to the river Afren, glistening between the meadow and the forest. It was full of ships with black sails.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
VERADIS
Veradis stared out of a window high in Uthandun’s keep. It was sunset, the day’s last rays washing the land in golden hues. And in the distance, far along the curving line that was the giantsway, Veradis saw a dark smudge appear upon it. The smudge glittered with sunshine on iron, like a dirty jewel.
‘How far away are they?’ Veradis asked Rhin, who was standing at his shoulder.
‘Three or four leagues.’ She looked sideways at him. ‘Too far away for a battle this night.’
‘And you are sure it is the Black Sun?’
‘Aye. Did Calidus not say so in his messages. That Meical and his puppet, this Corban, would be arriving at the gates of Uthandun within the next day or so.’
‘Aye, so you have told me, although I have not seen these messages,’ Veradis said, trying to keep the annoyance from his voice and not entirely sure that he had succeeded.
‘Do you doubt me?’
Not now I don’t.
‘No, my lady. Of course not.’ He paused, straining his eyes to see the gathering warband in the fading light. ‘How many did Calidus say?’
‘Three hundred swords, or thereabouts.’
‘It looks to be more to me.’
Rhin shrugged. ‘Three hundred, four hundred, six hundred. It matters not. You have close to a thousand men. I have double that. We have our Vin Thalun friends on the river, another five hundred swords. And Calidus and Nathair are four days north of here, another thousand men. The Black Sun cannot win.’
‘They have giants and wolven.’
A remnant of the warband that Rhin had sent north had trickled into Uthandun over the last ten-night, a score of men. All of them told a similar tale – of magical mists, of giants and wolven and warriors silent and deadly.
‘They do. Forgive me, but you sound . . . scared.’
Veradis bridled at that. Am I? Maybe a little, but not of them; only of failure.
‘I have faced giants and magical mists before, wolven and worse,’ Veradis murmured, ‘but I have been taught caution since then. Courage does not always equal victory.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘It feels almost too easy.’
‘More wars are won by errors of planning than great valour on the battlefield, or at least that has been my experience. Plan well. When it is time to strike, do it hard and fast.’
Never, ever, underestimate this woman.
‘And think, the God-War could be won in a single day. A single battle.’
‘Indeed. How far did you say they are?’
Rhin laughed. ‘You cannot bring them to battle this night. By the time you reached them it would be full night. On the morrow . . .’
‘The morrow,’ Veradis said, the words falling from his lips like a long-awaited promise. He could not suppress a smile. ‘This is all that I have dreamed of, for so long now. To take to the field against the Black Sun.’
‘And to win, I hope,’ she said with a sidelong glance.
‘Aye, and to win.’
‘Good. Then it would seem that your dream is about to come true.’
A smile spread across his face.
The sun disappeared behind hilltops, the sky turning to dark velvet as they stood in silence and watched. Campfires blinked into existence where the Black Sun’s warband had been, undulating across a far slope like a cluster of stars.
‘They may attempt to slip around us on the morrow,’ Veradis said, imagining being one of them, seeing his warband and the Vin Thalun ships arrayed before them.
‘They might,’ Rhin said, ‘and that would be a shame. Perhaps we should do something to ensure that battle is joined with the rising of the sun.’
Veradis marched along the hard stone of the giantsway. It was cold and dark, the heart of night wrapped tight all about him. There was no sign of Rhin’s scouts that were apparently ranging ahead, fifty of them leaving the fortress ahead of him, a protective screen picking methodically over the grou
nd for any sign of the enemy.
I hope.
The tramp of his warband’s feet on the giantsway behind did a good job of obscuring his hearing, the only sense that was of any use in this inky darkness. Nevertheless he strained his ears, trying to pick out sounds from ahead, not an easy task.
This was a mistake, he thought, not for the first time since leaving Uthandun’s walls. Walking into an ambush was not a pleasant thought.
It had seemed like a wonderful idea when Rhin suggested it, full of deep cunning: a forced march before dawn, not seeking battle, but to be close enough to give the enemy a surprise and no room for retreat when the sun rose.
No room for escape.
Now, though, all the dangers and potential disasters loomed tall in his mind.
What if they can hear us coming and are flanking us even now? He glanced down at his feet, boots wrapped in lamb’s wool, the same as every other warrior behind him. It made a remarkable difference; usually the tramp of two thousand warriors on a stone road would have been close to deafening. Still, they were not silent, and every sound seemed magnified in this darkness.
We will still win. Cannot lose. Too much is riding on this. And we are meant to win. This is not just another battle, it is the fate of the world. He shifted the shield on his arm, shrugged the weight of his chainmail shirt, loosened his sword in its scabbard and kept marching.
It had taken them almost three moons to journey from Dun Taras in Domhain all the long way to Uthandun, travelling through three realms. Rhin had paused along the way, gathering warriors, sending others off to enforce her new sovereignty upon her newborn realm. They had reached Uthandun a ten-night ago, Veradis putting the time at camp to good use. His eagle-guard had drilled hard every day, working on horn signals from the back to signal front-line switches, or flank-strengthening and a myriad of other manoeuvres, working on the weaknesses of the shield wall, not that there were many. And Veradis’ excitement and anxiety had grown daily in equal measure as Rhin reported to him of messages that she had received from Calidus.
They are close, so close. It will be good to see Nathair again. And he has been successful, captured the cauldron, one of the Seven Treasures. He must be overjoyed. Veradis had felt a worry lift from his shoulders that he had not realized was there.
It is only a shame that Nathair will not be here to witness the defeat of the Black Sun. He will be disappointed at that.
Something drew his attention, a flicker in the corner of his eye, just for a moment. A bone-grey blur. His senses strained as he stared into the darkness.
Nothing. He looked back over his shoulder as he continued marching, could make out an embankment that dropped steeply away from the road, but beyond that he saw nothing to confirm that his eyes had seen anything more than a trick of starlight. He marched on, the distant campfires of the enemy growing as they got nearer.
Dawn was a sliver of light in the east, the land a uniform grey, punctuated with deep, impenetrable pools of shadow. Muffled hooves drummed behind him; even they had been bound with fur. Rhin drew up before him, Geraint riding at her side.
‘It is time,’ she said, her eyes wide and bright with excitement. He felt the same, a night’s march doing little to dampen his enthusiasm for the coming battle.
‘Proceed as we planned,’ Rhin said to him, then leaned in her saddle, reached down and stroked his cheek. ‘We’ll soon toast our victory over a cup of wine.’
He shivered, and not in anticipation. He knew that Rhin had a thing for younger men and he had no idea how he’d be able to reject her and live. She pulled on her reins and was gone before his mouth could work. His cheek felt hot where she’d touched him.
Geraint lingered a moment. ‘Keep your head down,’ the older warrior said, then he was riding away too, back down the road to Rhin’s warband – close to two thousand swords spreading wide behind him, a mix of mounted men and foot soldiers.
This is it, Veradis thought, emotion swelling within him.
‘Give the signal,’ he said, and a warrior blew on a horn, two crisp notes. Before they had faded his eagle-guard was spilling from the road, forming into three blocks facing east. He would lead the first one, the other two behind, and together they would become a spearhead of iron and wood, flesh and bone. He marched towards his front rank, glanced at the shield wall to his left, warriors milling, forming lines. He saw Caesus, his captain, leaning out of the front line, looking towards him. They shared a glance and Caesus touched his fist to his heart, a salute. Veradis returned the gesture, then strode along the front line of his wall.
Faces stared back at him, grim and resolute. Many of them he recognized as having stood with him from the beginning, faced the charge of giants and draigs on that hillside in Tarbesh. Nathair’s Fangs, they had called themselves, named after the draig teeth Nathair had given to each and every one of the survivors. Veradis’ hand slipped to his sword pommel, where his draig tooth had been carved into the wood and leather hilt.
‘Victory or death!’ he cried in a loud voice and tugged his helmet on, hefted his shield and took his place in the wall. His cry was echoed, a thunderclap in the dawn as his men slammed tight around him.
The enemy were camped about half a league away, tents sprawled upon a gentle slope to the east of the giantsway, disappearing over the crest of the hill. Their fires were dimming as the sun rose, washing the earth with a pastel glow. Horn blasts rang out and the shield wall slipped into motion, smooth and practised, not a misstep that Veradis could tell. They had all removed the fur from their boots and now their progress was marked by a rumble as they marched forwards.
His heartbeat and the marching of feet kept time, helping to calm nerves, giving a discipline to their advance that somehow helped to keep in check the surge of emotions that accompanied battle – rage, fear, doubt. They passed across open meadows, the enemy growing ever closer.
Veradis’ eyes scanned the hillside but it was still cloaked in great patches of shadow, the sun rising behind it, making silhouettes of tents and figures, and making him squint. Figures stood tall, silently waiting for them.
Wise, making camp with the rising sun at your back. But sunlight will not save them. Not this day.
Cywen must be up there. As soon as he’d heard the news of this warband’s approach Veradis had suspected that Cywen must be with them. He had asked Rhin before he had thought.
‘I do not know,’ Rhin had said, regarding him with a puckered frown.
The next time she’d told him of a message from Calidus she had walked away, paused at the doorway and told him that Cywen lived, had been taken by Corban and his companions during battle in the halls of Murias.
Veradis had been surprised at the relief he’d felt to hear that she was still alive.
Corban found her. Rescued her. And she is up on that hillside now. I hope her brother tells her to stay out of this battle, or she’s likely to get herself killed. He chuckled at that, the thought of Cywen taking orders from anyone, even the Black Sun, seeming like an impossibility.
His feet hit the beginnings of the slope, a gentle incline. Behind him he heard the rumble of hooves, neighing, sporadic battle-cries as men summoned their courage.
Still there was no movement from above. He’d expected a charge. Everywhere he’d fought, warriors attacked in the same way. The old way. A wild surge with the blood up, then the singling out of opponents, the distilling of battle down into single duels, the winner moving on to find his next opponent, the loser food for crows. And so on, until the battle was done.
Not us. The shield wall had torn apart all that came against it. Except a charge of draigs, and a stampede of auroch. Here, though, it is against men and giants we fight. We will not lose.
He felt his heartbeat thumping in his chest, his mouth dry, palms sweaty, and everything seeming enhanced, sharper. The grating of iron-rimmed shields as they rubbed together in the advance, the smell of grass wet with dew underfoot, the sound of wood pigeons complaining as they
abandoned branches nearby. This was the precursor to combat, the process his body went through before imminent violence. He was almost used to it now, even welcomed it. He loved the simplicity of battle. All the doubt of the night’s march was gone, as if evaporated by the rising sun. He felt alert, confident, focussed.
This war will be won today.
They were a third of the way up the hill now, the first fires a hundred paces away. Still no movement. The hairs on Veradis’ neck prickled, his eyes searching over the rim of his shield for the enemy. For any sign of movement.
Something is wrong.
‘Sound the halt,’ he grunted to the signaller stationed behind him. A horn blast rang out. The shield wall rippled to a standstill, the other two on his wings doing the same, only heartbeats behind. Veradis stared at the clusters of figures before him, standing straight-backed and static, a breeze tugging at their cloaks, a fluttering of fabric.
He lowered his shield and stepped out of the shield wall, cursing himself for a fool.
He strode forwards, past a guttering fire, drawing the longsword at his hip as he approached the first group and hacked at a figure. It collapsed to the ground, the sound of sticks splitting, others in the line tugged to the ground where they were tied and stacked together.
He kicked at the form at his feet – sticks bound together and wrapped in a cloak. Cries from the woodland on his flank rang out: Rhin’s horsemen moving through the open trees, discovering the true nature of their foe. Caesus reached him, eagle-guard at his back.
‘Search the campsite,’ Veradis ordered, already knowing what they would find. Or not find.
Rhin cantered up the hill to him, Geraint and a dozen shieldmen about her.
‘A trick, my lady,’ Veradis said bitterly, lifting a tattered cloak from the ground as she drew near.
‘That I can see,’ she snapped, her face tight with rage. ‘The question is: where are they?’
Just what I was thinking.
A cry sounded from his warband, spreading, taken up by others. From the slope they were standing on they had a fine view of the surrounding countryside. Veradis saw men pointing back towards Uthandun. A sick feeling flowered in his belly, the aftermath of a punch to the gut. He stared hard at Uthandun, walls bathed in the light of dawn as the sun fully crested the hill at his back. At first he could see nothing wrong, then a flicker drew his eyes. Not Uthandun, but close to it. The Vin Thalun ships.