by John Gwynne
Four nights they’d been rowing up the Afren, away from Uthandun, each morning expecting to see ships appear on the river behind them, or hear the pounding of hooves as a warband swept along the riverbank.
That wouldn’t be so easy, though; most of the time I haven’t even been able to see beyond the riverbank. It had been choked thick with coppiced woods and undergrowth, trailing willow and black alder. Although now the banks were mostly clear, trees and undergrowth thinning, flat meadows visible through them. Why have our enemy not come after us? We were outnumbered, within their grasp. Whatever the reason, Coralen was starting to think that they were not being followed, that they had escaped.
It was a good plan, I can’t deny. Corban’s leadership skills had gone up in her estimation, coming up with the plan, and keeping a cool head to see it through. It had been well done, she had to admit, and she felt a swell of pride at her own contribution to it – the straw men and fires to draw the enemy’s eye.
Aye, it had worked a treat.
And now, to all appearances, they were free of pursuit and on the borders of Narvon and Isiltir, almost out of enemy territory. It was a strange feeling. Relief. It still didn’t stop her looking over her shoulder, though.
And now we are sailing to Drassil, instead of travelling south to Ardan. To Edana. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
A hand touched her on the shoulder.
‘You ready?’
It was Cywen, twirling a throwing-knife between her fingers and grinning.
During the first day upon the ship, after the heat of battle had left her veins and general tasks had been finished – clearing the ship of the dead, tending the wounded and mourning fallen comrades – Coralen had found herself in an unusual situation. Every day for as long as she could remember she had been in her saddle before dawn, riding out with her growing band of scouts, always active and contributing. But as the ships had rowed further and further away from Uthandun she had started to feel useless, obsolete.
Cywen had saved her, requesting that she teach her blade-work. Coralen had been more than happy to oblige, and asked for a lesson in knife-throwing in return. She wasn’t sure that learning to throw a blade whilst standing upon a moving, swaying ship was the best way to begin, but it was too late by the time she thought of that.
Since then Dath had filled the inactivity gap, giving orders to anyone whom he saw standing around – any small task to ensure the smooth running of the ship. Even now if Coralen stood still long enough she knew that she’d hear him calling her name.
‘Of course,’ Coralen said.
They stood and faced the raised deck at the rear of the ship. Upon its timber wall Cywen had painted a human outline, arm raised and brandishing a sword. Someone had, humorously, given it small horns and titled it a Kadoshim. Cywen handed her a knife.
Having been witness to previous sessions, Jehar, giants and off-duty oarsmen scattered from the rear half of the deck. Coralen had not taken to knife-throwing like the natural she’d expected to be. From the corner of her eye she saw Javed lean against the ship’s rail to watch them.
She took aim, setting her feet as Cywen had taught her, bringing the blade back to her ear, then—
A sword slammed into the wooden outline, almost exactly where Coralen had been aiming.
‘Hah, Laith is getting better,’ a voice laughed from just behind her, deep and almost deafening her.
‘Stop boasting,’ Cywen said, smiling up at the giantling. Laith’s head was bandaged from the wound she’d received during the battle. It didn’t seem to dampen her enthusiasm, though.
‘I’m speaking truth,’ Laith said with a frown. ‘Look.’ She pointed at her handiwork. ‘And it’s not stuck, see,’ Laith said, bounding over to the sword and tugging it free. ‘Laith has been thinking,’ she said, puffing her chest out. ‘I listen to Cywen – skill not strength.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘And a bigger blade.’
Despite herself, Coralen laughed, then shook her head. Laughing with a Benothi giantling; me, who rode with Rath and his giantkillers. How things change.
‘Where’d you get that sword?’ Cywen asked Laith.
‘From the dead,’ Laith replied. ‘They do not need them now.’
Coralen looked closer, saw that it was one of the short swords that the Vin Thalun favoured. The giantling lifted a leather coat to reveal another half-dozen of them secreted about her body.
Cywen shook her head, still smiling. She grasped it, testing its balance.
‘It’s weighted wrong,’ she said. ‘When we get to Drassil I’ll ask Farrell to make you something this size and weight, but balanced and weighted for throwing.’
Laith grinned. ‘I am a smith, too,’ she said, ‘but I’ve only made bigger things – wheels, axles for wains.’ She shrugged. ‘Will Farrell do it?’
‘If he says no to me, we can always get Coralen to ask him,’ Cywen said.
Coralen scowled at that, well aware of and unimpressed by the smith’s feelings for her.
‘Drassil?’ Javed said loudly. He sauntered closer. ‘Did you say Drassil?’
Cywen looked at him, frowning. They’d all forgotten he was there. She ignored him and turned away.
‘Hey,’ Javed said, reaching out and grabbing Cywen’s shoulder.
A huge hand clamped around Javed’s wrist and wrenched him off of Cywen.
‘You do not touch her,’ Laith said. Her playful, cheerful expression was gone, replaced by jutting brows and flat eyes. Javed’s face twitched and he exploded into movement, faster than Coralen could see. Javed’s free hand lashed out, his feet shifting, a flurry of movement, and then Laith was falling like a felled oak. She crashed to the timber deck, Javed crouched above her, a knife in his hand, hovering over the giant’s throat.
How did he do that?
‘Bigger they are, harder they fall,’ Javed muttered.
Everything froze for a moment, Coralen dimly aware that all on the ship’s deck were staring at them. Something warred across Javed’s face, emotions fighting for supremacy. His jaw spasmed, like a spark setting something in motion, followed by a contraction in the striated muscles of his shoulder, a drawing back of his wrist, and then Coralen was lunging forwards. She kicked out, caught Javed’s wrist as the knife began its descent, sending it spinning out of his hand. With a snarl Javed was turning, launching himself at her. A dozen blows flew between them, some blocked, some landing, then they were crushed together, spinning, still punching. Coralen’s back slammed into the wall of the cabin.
Blood dripped from Javed’s nose.
They froze, staring at each other, both breathing heavily.
Then another sound filtered through the fog of Coralen’s focus.
Growling. Deep, vibrating through the timber deck into Coralen’s boots.
‘You should let her go and step away,’ a voice said, cold, angry but controlled.
Javed stared a moment longer at Coralen, his face twisted with anger – no, something deeper than that, a berserk, consuming fury. Then, slowly, muscles shifted, loosened. He blinked, let go of her, stepped away.
Corban stood behind them, a look on his face that was a far cry from his usual amicable smile.
‘I’ll not see a hand raised against my friends, or tolerate them being hurt,’ he said to Javed. ‘So do we have a problem here?’ Corban did not move, had no weapon in his hands, but Javed took a step away from him. Storm’s growl shifted, became deeper somehow. Saliva dripped from her bared fangs.
‘I – I am . . . sorry,’ Javed said. And actually looked as if he was. He wiped a hand across his face, then turned and staggered away.
As the sun sank into the west it bathed the flat land of glistening marsh spread before them in its orange glow, myriad waterways and stagnant pools glistening like liquid amber. Behind them the bastion of the Darkwood stood stark and silhouetted, fading into the distance, and along with it the realm of Narvon.
Ahead is Isiltir, and beyond it Forn Forest
and Drassil. Coralen stood with Farrell by the gap in the rail where the boarding ramp would be lowered, waiting for Dath to yell his orders. He was on the riverbank, telling Laith where to secure a mooring rope. Her lip throbbed, a reminder of her earlier encounter. The fight sat heavy in her mind, the look in Javed’s eyes as he fought her. It had been as if he’d become another person. We all do that when we fight for real, to some degree. But still, what she had seen in his eyes . . .
And how he had reacted to Corban. There had been something new about Corban, in his voice and also in his eyes, something commanding. She hated that he had come to her rescue, that he had felt the need to step in. She scowled. I can look after myself. A few moments more and I would have had him. She thought about that a while, in all truth not sure if she would have. Javed was so fast, so committed to each move, with nothing held back, as if life and death were of no consequence.
‘Come on, then,’ Dath yelled up to them, ‘we’ve not got all day.’
Coralen made to shout something abusive but then grimaced as her lip pulled.
Farrell caught her wince. ‘I will call him out,’ he snarled from the other side of the boarding-ramp as they lowered it to the bank, their end hooking onto a timber lip.
‘What?’ Coralen said, having no idea what Farrell was talking about.
‘That oarsman,’ he said. ‘If only I’d been there.’
‘Good job you weren’t,’ Coralen said. ‘He put a giant bigger than you on her back.’
‘It’s not about size,’ Farrell said, looking offended. ‘I’ve seen more combat than Laith.’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Coralen snapped at him. ‘It was nothing.’ And he might have killed you, you big oaf. Much as you get on my nerves, I’d rather you alive than dead.
‘And besides, I can look after myself. Don’t need anyone to fight my battles for me.’
Farrell looked as if he wanted to say something but chose not to.
Not as much of an idiot as I thought.
‘Everyone off,’ Dath yelled, cupping his hands to his mouth. Laith copied him, her voice booming across the river.
They were sitting along the riverbank and spread in a half-circle around a row of fire-pits. Real meat was turning on spits – auroch, boar, deer – all found salted and hanging in one of the large transporters they’d stolen. Close to seven hundred souls sat curving around the fire-pits, stomachs growling and mouths watering at the smells, a murmur of anticipatory conversation thrumming amongst them.
Coralen sat with Farrell, Cywen and Dath. Also Kulla the Jehar, who seemed to have become Dath’s shadow in recent days. A few oarsmen that Farrell had befriended from his shift joined them, a father and son.
‘Atilius and Pax,’ Farrell introduced the two men.
Conversations with the oarsmen had been hesitant at first, so many of them on the verge of death, emaciated, withdrawn and insular. More of them were beginning to mix with Corban’s warband now, though, probably helped by the fact that they were sharing shifts on the oar-benches.
‘Where are you from?’ Dath asked them.
‘Tenebral,’ Atilius, the older man, said. He had the look of a warrior about him, close-cropped hair and beard, darkly tanned skin, solid and stocky, not an ounce of excess fat on his frame. There was something about him that looked familiar to Coralen.
‘How did you end up . . .’ Dath said, glancing back at the ships moored along the river’s edge.
Always tactful, Dath.
The two men exchanged a glance, a look of fear flitting across the younger one’s face.
‘Prisoners of war,’ Atilius said with a shrug.
‘War against who?’ This time it was Farrell asking the question.
‘The Vin Thalun,’ Atilius said. ‘The pirates you stole those ships from.’
‘Damn them to hell,’ Pax murmured. ‘Damn them to hell.’ He had a furtive, jumpy look to him.
Atilius patted his son’s leg, pain washing his features.
‘You’re warriors, then,’ Cywen said.
‘He is,’ Kulla said, nodding at Atilius.
‘We both were,’ Atilius said. His son looked away.
‘The warriors of Tenebral are our enemy,’ Farrell said, frowning. ‘Nathair is your king?’
‘Aye,’ Atilius said slowly, looking about at them. Cywen and Dath were sitting straighter, and Coralen was remembering the warriors she had fought and killed during the night raid on Rhin’s forces back in Domhain Pass. They had been men of Tenebral.
‘Eagle-guard,’ Cywen said.
‘Aye. That is what they called the best of us,’ Atilius said. His son was looking nervously between them.
‘Veradis. Do you know him?’ Cywen asked.
‘He is Nathair’s first-sword. A good man, or so I hear.’
‘Yes, I thought that, too,’ Cywen said, a distant look in her eye.
‘Are we your enemy, then?’ Atilius asked them.
A straight talker, at least. I like that.
‘To my mind, no,’ Cywen said. ‘But it is for Corban to decide. Should I consider you my enemy?’
‘No,’ snorted Atilius. ‘Nathair gave Tenebral’s rule to a madman – Lykos of the Vin Thalun – and then walked away on some mad quest. He abandoned his people to a lunatic. I want no part of such a king. If I were to fight, it would be against the Vin Thalun, whether they are allied to Nathair or not.’ He looked at his son. ‘But I don’t want to fight.’ He said it almost reassuringly. ‘I just want to find us some peace.’
Good luck with that. We’re marching knee-deep into the God-War.
Just then Javed walked past their group. He saw Coralen, his steps faltering for a moment as she met his gaze, then he walked on.
‘Heard about earlier,’ Atilius said.
‘Do you know him?’ Farrell asked, his voice dangerous.
‘Aye. He was a pit-fighter.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A form of entertainment for the Vin Thalun. Slaves they capture – they break them in on the oars; if they survive that then they throw them in the pit, a dozen, more. Last one alive gets to come out. Gets to fight another day. Some fight all the way to their freedom. He was one of them – almost.’ He looked at Coralen. ‘Heard you held your own with him. You’d have won a fortune in silver if you’d have done that back in Tenebral.’
‘He’s fast,’ Coralen said wryly, touching her lip.
‘He’s an animal,’ Pax said. ‘And touched.’ He tapped a finger against his temple. ‘They all are.’
‘Are there more like him on the oars – pit-fighters?’
‘Pit-fighters, aye,’ Atilius grunted. ‘Many. Like him, though? None. Not here, anyway.’
Coralen noticed a change around them, the murmur of conversation dying down. She looked up to see Corban vault onto a wide, low branch of an old elm. Storm lay at his feet, Meical, Gar, Tukul and Brina arrayed about him.
‘Looks like your brother has something to say,’ Dath said, slapping Cywen’s arm.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CORBAN
Corban stood on the branch of an old elm, looking out at the sea of faces staring back at him.
For a moment his mind went absolutely blank. He took a breath. ‘I’m not much for speech-making,’ he said, his voice falling into the silence like a stone in a deep pool. ‘But there are some things that need saying.’ He looked around again, his mouth dry, feeling a little overwhelmed.
‘Get on with it,’ Brina muttered under her breath. Corban scowled at her. Speech-making was all well and good for those used to it – but he wasn’t one for rhetoric and flowery talk. All he could do was speak from the heart and hope it was enough.
‘When I took these ships I promised you freedom,’ Corban shouted. ‘I also asked you to row us all to safety. Well, you have. Narvon lies behind us, Isiltir ahead, so I say to you again, you are free.’
Someone cheered, more voices adding to it, rippling through the crowd, surprising him, and also making h
im feel less self-conscious.
Maybe I’m not making a huge fool out of myself after all.
When it quietened he carried on.
‘But where is safe in this land of ours now? I’d like you to think on that. Of Rhin’s armies conquering nation after nation. Of the Vin Thalun enslaving our people.’ There were hisses at the mention of the hated pirates. ‘And of the Kadoshim, slaughtering men, women, bairns – innocents.’ A mass of faces gazed at him in silence. Corban sighed wearily, for a moment lost in a blur of memories – the Kadoshim in Murias, afterwards in the woodland of Narvon, one of them biting into the flesh of a terrified captive. He shook his head, forced himself to concentrate on those in front of him. ‘Tonight is for feasting, for celebrating our escape.’ He gestured to the fire-pits and the spitted meat. ‘And tonight is for making a choice. To join us or go your own way.’
‘Where are you going?’ someone shouted.
Corban frowned. How many will flee at the mere mention of our destination? They will think us mad. But I’ll not start our journey with a lie.
‘We are going to Drassil in Forn Forest.’
More silence.
Corban rubbed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. ‘Some of you will believe. Others will think we talk of myth and legend. But we have seen things – things that can leave us in no doubt. The God-War has begun. Sides are being chosen . . .’ He paused.
‘You must tell them,’ Meical had said to him earlier. Corban had looked pleadingly at Brina.
‘Might as well.’ She had shrugged. ‘Get it all over with in one go. Besides,’ she added. ‘It’s true.’
He sighed now and searched the faces in front of him. ‘I am the Bright Star spoken of in prophecy. I fight for Elyon, against Asroth and his Black Sun.’ He paused, the words sounding strange even to him.
Fighting a god – how can I do that?
‘I don’t want to fight,’ he said. ‘But what choice do I have? What choice do any of us have? I will fight to protect those I love. My kin. My friends – I fight for my realm. For our people. And for myself. Rhin, Nathair, the Vin Thalun – they will not stop until every one of us is dead or enslaved.’